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QUABBIN 

THE     STORY    OF    A    SMALL    TOWN 


WITH 


Outlooks  Upon  Puritan  Life 


O-^ 


BY 


FRANCIS  H.  UNDERV/OOD  LL.D. 

FORMERLY   U.    S.    CONSUL   AT   GLASGOW 

AUTHOR   OF   "handbooks    OF    ENGLISH    LITERATURE"    "BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCHES    OF 

LOWELL,    LONGFELLOW,    AND   WHITTIER "    "  LORD   OF   HIMSELF  "  A   NOVEL,   ETC. 


"  How  well  in  thee  appears 
The  constant  service  of  tlie  antique  world." 

As  YoH  Like  It. 


"  Throngh  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the  process  of  the  suns." 

Locksley  Jlall. 


BOSTON 
LEE   AND    SHEPARD    PUBLISHERS 

I O      MILK       STREET 
1S93 


^■1 


Copyright,  1S92,  by  Lee  and  Shepard 


All  Risrhts  Reserved 


QJJ  A  B  B  I  N 


To  those,  wherever  they  are,  who  have  inherited  the  blood 
and  shared  the  progress  of  the  descendants  of  Pilgrims  and 
Puritans,  this  book  is  respectfully  dedicated. 

Of  those,  comparatively  few  are  now  to  be  found  in 
Massachusetts  or  in  New  England  :  most  of  them  are  settled 
along  the  belt  of  migration  through  Western  New  York, 
Ohio,  and  Michigan,  the  Mississippi  Valley,  and  across  the 
continent. 

It  is  by  men  and  women  of  Puritan  lineage,  developed 
by  religious  tolerance  and  universal  education,  that  the  insti- 
tutions and  the  glory  of  New  England  are  to  be  preserved, 
after  the  homes  of  their  ancestors  have  been  occupied  by 
people  of  other  races  and  other  ideas. 


33S7i:;9 


CONTENTS 


i.     quabbin 

11.     Through  the  Village 

III.  Farms  and  Farm-Life  . 

IV.  Settlement        .... 
V.     Atmosphere    .... 

VI.     The  First  Minister 
VII.     Patient  Emily 
VIII.     JuDAisTic  Leanings   . 

IX.    Dress,  Manners,  and  Speech 
X.     How  the  Poor  were  cared  for 
—  The  Widow  Carter 

XL     Character      .... 

XII.     The  Quiltin'     .... 
XIIL     Working  the  Roads     . 

XIV.     Village  and  Country 

XV.    Town,  Parish,  and  Church 

XVI.    The  Second  Minister 
XVII.     The  Campaign  begun    . 
XVIII.     Sunday  Observances 

XIX.     Transition     .... 

XX.     How  the  Twig  was  bent 

XXI.     Quabbin  loses  and  gains 
XXII.     Colleges  and  Ministers 

XXIII.  Might  have  been  a  Romance 

XXIV.  The  Cider-Mill 

vii 


Aunt  Keziah. 


PAGE 

I 

II 

i8 
27 
33 
39 

49 
62 
68 

81 

96 

107 

118 

128 

133 
141 
149 
162 
176 
187 

194 
207 
219 
238 


viii  CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXV.  An  Exit 247 

XXVI.  Robert  IV 256 

XXVII.  Dawn 266 

XXVIII.  Miss  Wicks's  Tea-Party 274 

XXIX.  A  Talk  by  the  Roadside 287 

XXX.  An  Arrival 296 

XXXI.  An  Excursion 308 

XXXII.  Another  Tea-Party 325 

XXXIII.  Literature 343 

XXXIV.  The  Return  of  the  Native          ....  354 

Appendix  1 367 

Appendix  II.,  Civil  Liberty 371 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 


Portrait  of  Author 

In  the  Road  around  Little  Quabbin 

Birches  on  the  River  Bank 

The  Meeting-House 

A  Stately  House  of  the  Olden  Time 

A  Part  of  the  Village  Common 

A  Prosperous  Farm  and  Centennial  Elm 

A  Farmhouse  by  the  Roadside 

A  Typical  Farmer 

Crombie's  Bridge 

A  Coil  in  the  River 

One  of  the  Author's  Old  Friends 

Playmates  by  the  Haystack 

The  pictures  are  reproduced  by  John  Andrew  &  Son  Company  from 
photographs  by  Colin  Pitblado,  Esq.,  crayon  artist,  Hartford,  Conn. 

The  portrait  is  from  a  photograph  by  a  lady  amateur,  taken  about  four 
years  ago  in  Glasgow,  Scotland. 


QUABBIN 


CHAPTER  I 

QUABBIN 

Among  the  memories  of  childhood, — next  after  the 
impressions  of  a  mother's  brooding  love,  and  of  the 
home  wherein  the  new  unit  of  humanity  first  becomes 
conscious  of  being"  the  centre  of  a  universe,  —  the  most 
indelible  is  the  visual  line  that  encircles  his  birthplace, 
with  the  perspectives  that  stretch  out  to  it.  To  the 
Ouabbin  boy  the  boldly  marked  sky-line  on  the  ridges 
of  hills  that  shut  in  the  valley  under  its  blue  roof  was 
the  boundary  of  the  known  world.  Strangers  must 
have  looked  upon  the  little  village  with  compassion ; 
but  for  the  natives  it  was  cheerful  ;  they  knew  no 
other.  In  the  small  houses  there  was  no  luxury 
surely,  but  no  lack  of  wholesome  food  or  seasonable 
raiment.  There  were  schools  for  six  months  in  the 
year,  and  sermons  twice  every  Sunday,  —  Sahbaday 
it  was  in  the  vernacular. 

News  brought  by  the  county  paper  was  seldom  more 
than  two  weeks  old  ;  and  authoritative  expositions  of 
public  affairs  were  given  at  the  tavern  and  the  post- 
office  by  persons  who  had  actually  seen  New  York,  and 
who  spoke  of  Boston  with  an  air  of  familiarity. 

I 


2  QUAE  BIN 

The  valley  and  neighborhood  have  not  essentially 
changed  in  the  hundred  and  sixty  years  since  their  first 
settlement ;  for  the  natural  features  are  too  marked  to 
be  affected  by  the  superficial  touches  of  man.  Ploughs 
and  axes  do  not  disturb  the  eternal  basis  of  landscape  ; 
and  a  few  houses  more,  or  a  few  trees  lesg,  do  not 
matter. 

The  hill  that  rises  south  of  the  village  was  once  cov- 
ered with  great  oaks  and  chestnuts  which  had  sheltered 
Indian  hunters.  The  red  men  called  the  hill  Great 
Ouabbin,  and  the  name  belonged  to  the  district  as  well. 
Year  after  year  the  white  settlers  waged  war  upon  the 
venerable  trees  :  instead  of  being  a  patriarchal  forest 
to  be  cherished,  it  was  a  piece  of  stubborn  "woods" 
to  be  cleared  away.  By  and  by  lines  of  fence,  like 
geometric  diagrams,  were  traced  on  the  hill's  broad 
shoulders,  enclosing  sage-green  pastures,  sparsely  tufted 
with  wood-fern  and  huckleberry  bushes,  and  known  by 
all  boys  of  the  village  to  be  rosy  with  strawberries 
every  summer. 

It  was  a  Delectable  Mountain  for  children,  even  after 
the  majestic  trees  were  felled.  The  ascent  was  easy; 
for  a  primitive  road,  partly  grass-grown,  led  to  the 
table-land  at  the  summit,  where  were  two  small,  decay- 
ing farmhouses,  since  destroyed.  To  one  looking 
back  when  half-way  up,  the  village  below,  nestling 
under  shade-trees  on  both  sides  of  the  river,  had  a  soft 
and  almost  unreal  beauty ;  but  as  one  climbed,  it  sank 
out  of  sight  under  the  swelling  buttress  of  the  hill. 
The  upper  region  was  alpine  in  its  cool  serenity,  its 
airy  pastures,  sparkling  brook,  and  broad  horizon. 
Sixty  miles  away  rose  a  grand  mountain,  pyramidal 
and   blue,  —  a  melting  vapory  blue   that  one   expected 


QUABBIN  3 

to  see  blown  away;  while  in  the  opposite  direction  was 
grouped  a  confused  and  retreating  mass  of  hills,  seen 
beyond  the  golden  mist  of  the  Connecticut  valley. 

It  was  a  delight  to  take  deep  draughts  of  the  exhila- 
rating air,  to  watch  the  thin,  spectral  wreaths  of  smoke 
rising  from  distant  houses,  to  count  afar  the  many 
steeples,  mere  glimmering  white  lances,  and  to  seek 
out  the  purply-gray  forms  of  well-known  mountains 
around.  No  voices,  nor  hum  of  machinery,  nor  ring  of 
hammer  were  heard  from  the  valley.  The  only  sounds 
that  broke  the  stillness  were  the  occasional  lowing  of 
cattle,  the  murmur  of  brooks,  and  the  light,  silvery 
strokes  of  the  meeting-house  clock.  The  bell  had  a 
tender,  harmonious  tone,  full  of  solemn  suggestion, 
associated  with  an  austere  worship  and  with  funerals, 
but  never  with  weddings  or  public  rejoicings.  Earth 
was  beautiful  in  remoteness,  and  heaven  near.  The 
mountain  lifted  an  imaginative  child  toward  infinity, 
and  he  clung  to  it  as  if ."  conscious  of  the  desperate 
whirl  of  the  globe  through  space. 

Opposite,  behind  the  village,  rose  the  lesser  northern 
hill  (Ram  Mountain),  a  somewhat  irregular  but  beautiful 
cone  of  granite,  jagged  here  and  there  with  projecting 
edges  of  rock,  and  at  that  time  thinly  covered  with 
soil.  Once  there  were  thick  bushes  and  dwarfish  trees 
on  its  sides,  and  plumes  of  tall  pines  were  set  jauntily 
on  its  crest  ;  but  it  was  ravaged  and  stripped  by  chop- 
pers, and  left  with  scarred  forehead,  and  dreary,  naked 
flanks.  When  clad  in  green,  the  hill  had  been  stately 
and  joyous,  but  in  its  bereavement  was  shame-faced 
and  dispirited.  Still,  it  had  a  placid  look  for  the  meet- 
ing-house at  its  foot,  and  its  rugged  mass  made  an 
effective  background  for  the  white  steeple. 


4  QUABBIN 

The  hill  on  the  east  side  of  the  villag-c,  known  as 
Little  Quabbin,  was  rather  too  far  away  to  have  much 
part  in  the  landscape.  However,  it  did  its  best  in 
delaying  the  morning  sun,  in  upholding  the  north  end 
of  summer  rainbows,  and  in  sending  back  reflections 
from  its  massy  ledges  at  sunset. 

Ouabbin  is  at  its  best  in  summer,  in  its  rich  vesture 
of  green.  The  numerous  springs  and  the  dewy  air 
keep  the  pastures  and  meadows  fresh,  while  the  shade- 
trees  in  streets  and  gardens,  the  adjacent  forests,  and 
the  scattered  wild  growths  (from  hazel  or  alder  bushes 
to  vigorous  oaks  and  chestnuts),  are  so  luxuriant  and 
widespread  that  it  is  difficult  to  find  a  clear  vista  in 
any  direction.  The  main  roads,  it  must  be  confessed, 
would  be  dull,  if  it  were  not  for  the  outlooks  upon  hills 
and  farms  ;  but  there  are  many  by-ways,  exquisite  as 
the  dreamy  idyls  of  Corot.  One  road  by  the  western 
side  of  Ram  Mountain,  after  passing  a  beautiful  slope 
of  farming-land,  leads  into  a  young  forest  where  there 
is  a  flecked  shade  even  at  midday,  and  a  sense  of  cool- 
ness, with  a  fresh,  cheery  smell,  that  is  partly  earthy, 
and  partly  leafy.  The  road  meanders  under  the  living 
arch  among  countless  (and  nameless)  bushes  and  wild 
flowers,  and  appears  to  consist  of  a  faintly  worn  path 
for  a  horse,  two  dim  wheel-tracks,  and  intervening 
lines  of  tufted  grass,  which  is  often  tall  enough  to 
brush  the  axle-trees.  After  reaching  the  open  "  front 
yard  "  of  a  small  house  two  or  three  miles  beyond,  it 
comes  to  an  end. 

Another  road,  around  the  northern  end  of  Little 
Quabbin,  passes  along  the  fringe  of  woods  that  hangs 
upon  the  mountain  side  ;  and  the  visitor  finds  himself 
in  a  long,  winding,  arched  wa}',  dim  as  a  cathedral  aisle, 


QUABBIN  5 

but  with  glimpses  of  warm  sunlight  reflected  from  the 
fertile  lands  that  lie  just  outside  of  the  screen  of  white 
birches  on  his  left.  What  artist  or  photographer  could 
give  an  idea  of  the  strong  yet  grateful  contrast  between 
the  green  gloom  on  the  one  hand,  and  the  flickering 
splendors  that  come  to  him  through  tender  birch  leaves 
and  vellum-cased  branches  on  the  other  ? 

The  three  hills,  standing  at  different  angles,  shut  in 
the  village,  which  partly  rests  on  the  rounded  bases 
of  two  of  them,  while  the  river,  which  is  the  life  of 
the  valley,  glides  in  swift  curves  at  their  feet. 

The  banks  of  Swift  River  have  been  sadly  maltreated. 
Once,  near  the  cove,  above  the  dam,  a  belt  of  young 
pine-trees,  uniform,  softly  rounded,  and  velvety  green, 
followed  the  stream  and  the  cove  in  many  a  coil ;  and, 
below  the  dam,  there  were  at  intervals  thickets  of  alders, 
water-maples,  shad-bushes,  willow  clumps,  with  myriads' 
of  lithe  red  shoots,  wild-grape  vines,  tangled  clematis, 
and  the  "  swamp  pink,"  parent  of  the  garden  azalea. 
But  the  meandering  belt  of  pines  fell  under  the  axe 
long  ago  ;  and  in  its  place  sprang  up  white  birches,  as 
if  to  make  a  fringe  on  the  naked  border  ;  while,  little 
by  little,  the  banks  down  stream  were  cleared  of  the 
"brush"  that  yielded  no  income  except  to  children  and 
poets.  Many  of  the  shrubs  that  crowded  the  wet 
margins,  such  as  the  blushing,  sweet-scented  azaleas, 
and  the  shad-bushes  that  wore  fresh  bridal  veils  every 
May,  became  only  memories.  Utility  had  its  wav,  and 
this  part  of  the  river's  edge  was  for  years  like  an  eyelid 
without  lashes. 

There  is  a  pretty  reach  of  still  water  near  the  cove, 
full,  black,  and  lustrous.  On  one  side  is  a  meadow 
with  a  few  hickory-trees  ;  on  the  other,  the  high  bank 


6  QUABBIN 

covered  with  young  birches.  On  a  windless  afternoon 
might  be  seen  a  boat,  with  children  rowing,  its  stem 
silently  cutting  through  reflections  of  leafy  sprays,  of 
slender  white  trunks,  leaning  at  all  angles,  and  of  sunny 
clouds  in  distant  blue  below. 

In  early  times  the  whole  region  was  dripping  with 
springs,  and  shaggy  with  vegetation  ;  and  even  to-day, 
such  is  the  struggle  for  existence,  there  are  few  trim 
lawns  or  meadows  of  grass  free  from  the  intrusion  of 
coarser  species.  The  leafy  robes  of  the  hills  trailed 
on  the  lowlands  ;  while  bushes,  briers,  ferns,  or  brakes 
filled  the  fence-corners  and  road-sides,  and  bordered 
the  water-courses. 

A  mile  above  the  centre  was  the  north  village, 
grouped  around  another  dam,  and  at  some  distance 
beyond  was  a  lake,  framed  in  sombre  hills.  Its  margin 
was  surrounded  by  such  trees  as  burn  with  richest 
colors  in  autumn;  so  that  from  the  uplands,  after  the 
first  light  frost,  the  distant  sheen  of  water  appeared  in 
a  setting  of  crimson,  yellow,  gold-brown,  and  dark  red  ; 
and,  coming  nearer,  one  would  say  that  the  trees  were 
standing  in  the  water's  edge  and  admiring  themselves 
in  the  mirror. 

There  was  a  good  view  from  a  farmhouse  on  the 
side  of  tlie  eastern  hill  (Little  Ouabbin),  or,  better, 
from  the  hill-top,  looking  westward.  This  view  em- 
braced the  cove,  the  river  winding  through  meadows, 
the  village,  tufted  with  maples  and  elms,  the  white 
spire  standing  out  from  the  northern  hill,  and  the  broad 
expanse  of  the  southern  hill,  which  dominates  the 
region.  The  traveller  who  has  seen  something  of  the 
Old  World  finds  that  tlie  tranquil  beauty  of  this  scene 
lingers  in   memory,  and  will   not   be  overlain.     Some- 


QUAD  BIN  7 

thing  must  be  allowed  for  early  associations,  but  the 
image  of  this  landscape  remains  clear.  It  needs  only 
to  have  been  celebrated  in  sonir  or  famous  in  storv. 
Ouabbin  is  not  famous. 

The  meeting-house  of  the  village  formerly  stood  side- 
wise  to  the  road  in  a  green  space,  flanked  by  rows  of 
horse-sheds,  some  of  them  decrepit,  and  all  unpainted. 
In  its  first  estate  it  was  of  a  dingy  sulphur  color,  and 
without  a  steeple  ;  but  its  oaken  frame  and  trussed  roof 
were  made  to  endure.  Later,  a  steeple  was  set  astride 
the  roof ;  the  building  was  painted  white,  furnished 
Vv^ith  green  (outside)  blinds,  and  turned  with  its  end  to 
the  street.  The  vane,  of  sheet  metal,  gilded,  was  cut 
in  form  of  a  man,  the  head  cleaving  the  wind,  and  the 
legs  extended  for  rudder.  As  it  turned  with  a  sharp 
cry  on  the  rod  which  pierced  its  body,  it  needed  but 
little  aid  from  the  ima2:ination  of  a  bov  to  become  the 
image  of  some  sinner  transfixed  in  air,  and  held  aloft  to 
swing  in  lingering  pain. 

In  later  days  the  boys  found,  in  the  cob-webbed  and 
dusty  space  below  the  belfry,  a  long-forgotten  cask  of 
ball  cartridges,  which  had  been  kept,  according  to  law, 
to  be  ready  for  an  emergency  that  never  happened. 
The  paper  covers  were  rotten,  and  the  powder  de- 
composed; and  it  was  great  fun  to  drop  the  leaden 
ounce-balls  from  the  belfry  railing,  and  then  find  them 
flattened  and  hot  upon  the  stone  steps  below. 

The  pulpit  within  was  high,  approached  by  flights  of 
stairs,  and  above  it  was  hung  a  sounding-board,  in 
shape  like  an  extinguisher.  It  was  often  a  matter  of 
v/onder  as  to  what  would  happen  to  the  minister  if  the 
chain  should  break  ;  but  the  boys  were  assured  by  the 
thouL-ht  that  "The  Lord  is  mindful  of  his  own." 


8  QUABBIN 

The  pews  were  square,  each  family  being  enclosed  as 
in  a  pen,  all  facing  inwards.  The  uncushioncd  wooden 
seats  wjre  hinged,  and  were  raised  as  people  stood  up 
during  prayer,  to  fall  with  a  multitudinous  clatter  when 
the  prayer  ended.  There  was  a  gallery  on  three  sides, 
the  part  facing  the  pulpit  being  occupied  by  the  choir. 

A  century  earlier  it  was  the  custom  in  Now  England 
to  "  scat  the  meeting  ;  "  that  is,  to  assign  seats  to  the 
town's  people  according  to  their  rank,  as  magistrates, 
elders,  deacons,  college-bred  men,  land-owners,  mechan- 
ics, and  laborers.  In  Ouabbin  each  head  of  a  family 
owned  the  pew  he  occupied,  paying  an  annual  tax 
thereon  to  the  parish.  The  best  places  in  the  meeting- 
house belonged  to  those  who  had  the  money  to  pay  for 
them. 

The  sheds  adjoining  the  meeting-house  were  for  the 
shelter  of  the  ''teams"  of  the  country  people  ;  and  in 
sunimer,  when  the  windows  were  open,  the  services 
were  frequently  enlivened  (for  restless  boys)  by  the 
stamping,  whinnying,  and  squealing  of  lonesome  or  fly- 
pestered  horses.  The  village  schoolhouse  was  next 
beyond  the  eastern  sheds,  and  behind  them  was  the 
hillside  burying-ground. 

The  boy  of  Ouabbin  who  returns  to  his  native  town 
a  man  of  sixty  does  not  walk  alone  through  the  street. 
People  of  the  old  time  meet  and  accost  him,  or  nod  to 
him  from  their  wonted  places.  He  knows  every  figure 
and  face,  and  the  color  and  cut  of  their  clothes.  His 
youth  comes  back,  and  he  sees  his  playfellows  become 
bridegrooms,  then  fathers  of  families,  then  patriarchs, 
—  the  same  beings  jxissing  through  the  successive 
changes  of  a  lifetime  while  he  looks, — and  he,  mean- 
while, able  to  recall  any  phase  of  their  career  at  will. 


QUA  B  BIN  9 

He  sees,  with  the  eye  of  memory,  sunburnt  and  grizzled 
men  in  blue  frocks  leaning  at  the  posts  of  the  black- 
smith's open  door,  while  within,  by  the  lurid  light, 
sinewy  arms  turn  the  glowing  horseshoe,  and  sh6wers 
of  golden  fire  fly  at  each  strenuous  blow.  The  names 
of  those  grizzled  men  have  long  been  chiselled  on  tomb- 
stones, but  there  they  are  by  the  smithy,  and  the  man 
of  sixty,  once  more  a  boy,  knows  them  well.  Others 
he  sees  driving  ox-teams  with  logs  for  the  saw-mill,  men 
and  oxen  alike  calmly  chewing  the  cud,  while  long 
whips  are  waved  encouragingly,  and  ''Haw,  Buck!"  or 
''Gee,  Bright!  "  enlivens  the  slow  procession. 

Another,  from  a  former  generation,  comes  in  a  heavy 
wagon,  thorough-braced  and  well  spattered  with  ancient 
mud.  His  wife  sits  by  him,  in  camlet  cloak  and  scoop 
bonnet,  and  they  are  bound  for  the  store.  In  the  box 
behind  the  seat  they  have  a  basket  of  eggs,  a  "four- 
meal"  cheese,  and  a  firkin  of  butter,  to  be  exchanged  for 
tea,  molasses,  and  other  "  boughten  "  goods.  Another, 
younger  and  livelier,  is  whirling  by  in  a  buggy,  show- 
ing off  his  trot  ting-horse.  The  animal  is  not  groomed  to 
a  satin  gloss,  and,  in  fact,  is  rough  in  coat,  and  perhaps 
tangled  in  mane  and  tail  ;  but  his  great  haunches  work 
powerfully,  and  his  feet  appear  to  be  all  the  time  in  the 
air,  reaching  ahead.  He  "gets  over  the  ground,"  and 
often  sends  a  dash  of  gravel  back  at  his  keen  and  tricky 
driver. 

If  it  is  Sunday,  our  friend  of  sixty  years  sees  groups 
of  men  and  youths  whom  he  knew  long  ago,  loitering 
upon  the  meeting-house  steps,  all  visibly  uncomfortable 
in  holiday  clothes,  .discussing  the  affairs  of  town  and 
church  ;  the  bachelors,  with  eyes  in  ambush,  demurely 
watching  the  in-coming  maids.      Some  of  the  ungodly 


lO  (lUAIUUX 

and  disreputable  are  haunting  the  dilapidated  and  windy 
old  tavern  across  the  green.  He  knows  these  pariahs, 
though  they  have  long  lain  in  nameless  graves. 

As  the  Quabbin  boy  of  sixty  continues  his  rounds, 
other  faces,  long  forgotten,  are  projected  in  memory's 
camera.  All  of  them  belong  to  people  who  were  once 
h"s  townsmen.  One  brilliant  man,  after  many  vicissi- 
tudes, was  a  banker,  and  heaped  up  wealth,  whicli  his 
prodigal  son  in  after  years  was  to  waste.  His  brother, 
the  man  with  studious,  meditative  countenance, 
was  a  physician.  That  beautiful  youth,  the  banker's 
nephew,  after  a  successful  beginning,  and  with  the 
haven  of  love  in  sight,  returned  to  Quabbin  to  die  ; 
while  his  betrothed,  white  as  a  lily,  drooped  under  the 
weeds  of  eternal  widowhood.  This  gentleman  with 
gold  spectacles  went  from  the  principal  "store"  of 
Quabbin,  and  set  up  in  Boston  an  establishment  whose 
name  is  a  household  word  and  a  synonyme  of  honor. 
That  boon  companion,  whose  talk  was  illustrated  with 
oaths,  dissipated  an  ample  fortune,  and  laughed  away 
with  merry  curses  his  friends  and  reputation.  Another, 
with  dazed  and  vacant  look,  lost  the  savings  of  a  life- 
time by  trusting  them  to  a  stock  operator,  who  posed 
as  a  Christian  philanthropist. 

The  plainly  dressed  man,  he  with  devout  expres- 
sion and  *' looks  commercing  with  the  skies,"  was  a 
mill-worker,  whose  soul  was  so  full  of  the  love  of  God 
that  men  felt  holier  and  stronger  for  the  touch  of  his 
hand,  or  the  sound  of  his  voice.  Neither  wealthy  nor 
learned  nor  elocpicnt,  he  liad  inexhaustible  riches, 
celestial  knowledge,  and  the  pentecostal  gift  of  tongues. 
At  least  one  spot  in  the  bleak  hillside  is  holy  ground. 


THROUGH   THE    VHLAGE  II 


CHAPTER  II 

THROUGH    THE    VILLAGE 

Time  is  busy  in  levelling  hills,  abrading  garden  ter- 
races, flattening  grave-mounds,  and  abasing  old  families. 
The  gulf  between  the  rich  and  poor  may  continue  as 
absolute  as  that  between  Dives  and  Lazarus  ;  but  the 
traditional  prominence  of  old  families,  if  not  already  a 
thing  of  the  past,  is  departing,  along  with  gracious 
memories,  and  with  much  that  used  to  inspire  admira- 
tion and  deference.  In  a  village  like  Ouabbin  there  is 
little  at  this  day  to  render  one  old  house  more  vener- 
able than  another,  but  sixty  years  ago  there  were  differ- 
ences not  to  be  explained  by  value  or  picturesqueness. 
More  was  thought  of  intangible  qualities  and  associa- 
tions, such  as  cluster  about  the  homes  of  beloved  men 
and  scenes  of  historic  interest.  A  few  houses  in  the 
village  had  an  indefinable  charm  for  those  w^ho  remem- 
bered their  former  occupants.  There  is  one  in  a 
commanding  position  near  the  cross-roads  which  is 
venerable  in  slow  decay,  and  out  of  relations  with 
modern  neighbors.  Two  ancient  elms  tower  over  the 
grounds,  and  are  seen  afar.  One  of  the  patriots  who 
fought  at  Bunker's  Hill  built  the  house,  then  con- 
sidered a  mansion.  His  wife,  the  descendant  of  a 
Huguenot  family,  had*  three  sons  by  a  former  mar- 
riage ;  and  these,  in  their  maturity,  were  the  only  per- 


12  QUABBIN 

sons  in  Ouabbin  that  coultl,  in  the  strict  sense,  be  called 
gentlemen.  The  bright  old  lady  long  survived  her 
husband,  and  made  a  striking  picture  as  she  moved 
about  in  her  wheeled-chair,  accompanied  by  one  of 
her  sons,  a  grave  and  stately  man,  who  lived  with  her. 
Another  son  built  a  dwellimr  nearer  the  meetinsr-house. 
It  appeared  to  be  the  dream  of  some  inspired  carpenter, 
a  dream  of  wooden  pilasters,  wreaths,  and  scrolls,  with  a 
fretwork  balustrade  of  wheel  patterns  upon  the  eaves, 
and  an  arched  and  decorated  gateway,  all  in  glittering 
white.  Hillside  terraces  at  the  rear,  with  flower-beds 
and  fruit-trees,  were  to  youthful  eyes  like  the  hanging 
gardens  of  Babylon.  The  owner,  with  his  tropical  com- 
plexion of  pale  orange,  his  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and 
his  distinguished  manners,  in  which  dignity,  courtesy, 
and  kindness  had  equal  share,  was  a  wonderful  person 
in  Ouabbin  sixty  years  ago.  For  he  had  actually  sailed 
around  the  world  ;  his  cheeks  had  acquired  their  rich 
color  in  China,  where  he  had  been  a  tea-merchant  ;  the 
bronze  idols  and  the  great  vases  that  adorned  his  rooms 
had  come  from  farthest  East.  Besides,  he  knew  Euro- 
pean capitals,  and,  along  with  his  well-earned  wealth,  he 
had  brought  to  the  village  an  aroma  from  spice-lands,  a 
knowledge  of  the  world,  and  the  grand  air  that  so  be- 
comes a  travelled  man. 

The  third  of  the  brothers,  a  manufacturer,  built  a 
fine  house,  but  with  less  ornament,  on  a  knoll  not  far 
distant.  All  three  could  have  been  presented  with 
credit  at  any  court.  They  spoke  the  language  of  the 
educated  world  ;  but,  along  with  their  somewhat  cere- 
monious manners,  they  had  a  sense  of  what  was  due  to 
others,  especially  to  humble  neighbors  ;  and  as  they 
were    public-spirited,    just,    and    generou.s,    they    were 


THROUGH   THE    VILLAGE  1 3 

respected  and  loved.  No  one  envied  them  their  good 
fortune  —  a  rare  experience,  whether  in  Ouabbin  or 
elsewhere. 

The  sombre  old  house  with  its  two  elms  connected 
the  village  with  the  by-gone  days  of  the  colony ;  and 
the  little^ old  lady,  while  she  lived,  was  a  link  with  the 
great  world,  as  her  family  was  justly  distinguished. 
But  there  may  not  be  a  living  descendant  of  her  three 
sons,  and  few  of  the  present  inhabitants  know  even 
the  names  of  the  men  who  first  gave  distinction  to 
Ouabbin. 

What  views  the  three  original  proprietors  had  in  re- 
gard to  religion,  letters,  schools,  or  art,  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult now  to  say.  They  "went  to  meeting,"  apparently 
as  a  duty,  and  they  took  a  modest  part  in  town  affairs ; 
but  between  them  and  the  town's  people  there  must 
have  been  little  intimacy.  The  general  dulness  in  their 
time  must  have  been  impenetrable.  They  owned  the 
water-power,  which  was  the  source  of  the  town's  pros- 
perity and  their  own,  but  they  sold  it  to  two  brothers 
who  were  born  in  one  of  the  old  farmhouses  which  once 
stood  on  the  top  of  the  southern  hill.  These  hitter 
were  shrewd,  able,  and  honorable  men,  but  were  less 
courtly,  and  reputed  to  be  less  generous,  than  their 
predecessors. 

They  were  for  a  long  time  the  great  men  of  the  town, 
until  a  third  family,  which  had  long  ruled  the  north 
village,  acquired  a  paramount  interest  in  the  property. 

The  principal  store  of  the  town  is  remembered  chiefly 
by  its  permanent  odor,  iii  which  there  were  suggestions 
of  dried  codfish,  pickled  mackerel,  spices,  snuff,  i^hig 
tobacco,  molasses,  and  new  rum,  re-enforced  in  cold 
weather  by  the  evaporation  of  tobacco  juice  upon  a  hot 


14  QUA  B  BIN 

stove,  and  the  occasional  whiff  of  a  pipe.  The  store- 
keeper was  quiet  and  shrewd,  and  knew  the  cumulative 
power  of  compound  interest.  A  farmer  who  had  fallen 
behind-hand  could  get  a  continuance  of  supplies,  includ- 
ing the  indispensable  jug,  by  giving  a  mortgage  upon  his 
land,  —  a  backward  step  which  was  seldom  retrieved, — 
so  that  in  the  course  of  years  the  storekeeper's  roofs 
might  have  been  measured  by  acres.  He  was  not  in 
the  least  dishonest,  but  he  worked  frankly  for  his  own 
interest ;  and  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that,  in  transac- 
tions with  customers  who  are  habitually  fuddled  and 
confused,  a  clear-headed  man  has  all  the  advantage. 
Farms  were  exchanged  for  rum  or  cider-brandy,  with 
shabbiness,  degradation,  and  family  misery  thrown  in. 
As  the  use  of  spirits  was  universal,  a  dealer  incurred 
no  obloquy,  nor  injury  to  his  social  standing. 

There  were  other  storekeepers,  although  they  sold  no 
spirits.  One  of  them  did  a  snug  business,  though 
noted  for  a  scrimping  nicety  in  weights  and  measures, 
and  for  a  keen  lookout  after  fractions.  People  were 
not  overjoyed  to  see  a  fig  torn  in  halves  in  case  of  over 
weight, —  that  a  fig  was  bitten  in  such  an  emergency 
was  a  slander, —  nor  to  pay  invariably  thirteen  cents 
for  twelve  and  a  half;  yet  the  proprietor  once,  in  a 
glow  of  virtuous  pride,  referred  to  the  substantial  sum 
realized  in  a  year  from  this  salutary  rule  of  retaining 
the  half-cents  in  making;  chancfe. 

The  perplexities  of  the  currency  in  olden  times  were 
manifold.  Though  the  present  decimal  coinage  had 
been  long  established  by  law,  the  custom  of  reckoning 
by  shillings,  six  to  the  dollar,  was  well  nigh  universal 
in  Massachusetts.  At  the  same  time,  a  large  part  of 
the  silver  coins  in  use    consisted   of    Mexican  dollars. 


THROUGH   THE    VILLAGE  1 5 

halves,  quarters,  eighths,  and  sixteenths,  all  bearing 
the  pillared  arms  of  Spain  ;  and  between  these  coins 
and  the  traditional  but  imaginary  "  shillings  "  there 
was  a  rare  confusion,  demanding  a  mastery  of  vulgar 
fractions  which  only  "  Colburn's  Mental  Arithmetic" 
could  give.  A.Mexican  eighth  was  worth  12^  cents, 
but  it  was  always  called  a  "  ninepence,"  that  being  its 
value  in  the  traditional  "  shilling  "  of  i6;4  cents.  A 
Mexican  sixteenth,  6^  cents,  was  called  a  "four-pence 
ha'penny."  Prices  of  goods  were  marked  in  shillings  ; 
e.  g.,  "  two-and-three-pence  "  in  place  of  37^^/^  cents, 
four  shillings  in  place  of  ^(y'Yi  cents,  five  shillings  for 
83 >^  cents,  etc.  The  constant  multiplication  of  the 
fractional  tags  insensibly  drew  from  the  public,  and 
sensibly  added  to  the  dealer's  till.  It  was  in  compara- 
tively recent  times  that  the  Mexican  coins  were  driven 
out,  and  that  the  custom  of  reckoning  by  shillings  fell 
into  disuse. 

In  this  store,  conducted  on  such  sound  financial 
principles,  an  Exalted  Personage  in  the  government  of 
the  United  States  received  his  first  mercantile  training, 
and  beo-an  his  successful  career.  In  the  sketches  of 
his  life,  published  during  the  campaign  prior  to  his 
election,  it  is  a  matter  of  regret  that  the  lonely  place 
of  his  apprenticeship  was  overlooked.  It  was  a  misfor- 
tune for  Ouabbin. 

Some  sixty  years  ago  the  old  tavern  opposite  the 
meeting-house  having  "run  down,"  a  new  one  of  three 
stories  was  built  in  the  centre,  at  the  cross-roads. 
There  w\as  a  daily  stage-route  from  the  county  town 
to  Boston,  and  a  four-horse  coach,  announced  by  a 
far-echoing  horn,  came  thundering  down  the  hill  road 
in  the  earlv  morning,  and  discharged  its  passengers  at 


l6  QUABBIN 

the  tavern  for  breakfast.  There  were  few  travellers 
who  put  up  there,  except  the  stage  passengers.  The 
chief  revenue  was  from  the  bar.  The  sound  of  the 
toddy-stick  was  often  heard,  even  in  the  street.  It  was 
a  rlivtliniical  roll,  and  each  bar-keeper  prided  himself 
upon  his  special  tattoo.  Farmers  coming  to  mill  or 
shop,  especially  in  winter,  stopped  there  with  their 
teams,  the  shivering  animals  being  often  forgotten 
while  they  drank  hot  toddy  by  the  bar-room  fire.  The 
stable  was  haunted  by  day,  and  the  bar-room  by  night, 
bv  shady  and  mysterious  creatures,  willing  drudges  for 
food  and  drams.  To  one  coming  from  the  fresh  air  with- 
out, the  breath  of  that  fiery  bar-room  was  overpowering. 
The  odors  of  the  hostlers'  boots,  redolent  of  fish-oil 
and  tallow,  and  of  buffalo-robes  and  horse-blankets,  the 
latter  reminiscent  of  equine  ammonia,  almost  got  the 
better  of  the  all-pervading  fumes  of  spirits  and  tobacco. 
Clay  pipes  for  "cut  plug"  were  much  in  favor,  though 
some  reckless  spendthrifts,  at  times,  smoked  principe 
cigars  at  three  cents  each. 

This  was  the  exchange  for  rustic  wit,  the  focus  of 
hate  for  parsons  and  deacons,  and  of  ridicule  for  the 
new-fangled  temperance  society.  The  walls  were 
adorned  with  placards  of  stage-routes,  w^oodcuts  of 
enormous  stallions  in  prancing  attitudes,  and  notices 
of  sheriffs'  sales, —  the  land  or  the  stock  of  some 
deceased  or  ruined  farmer  to  be  offered  at  "public 
vendue."  The  country  people  gave  the  word  nearly 
the  French  sound,  vandiic.  No  one  then  used  the 
term  auction. 

The  Masonic  Hall  at  the  cross-roads  was  deserted. 
The  lodge  never  met,  and  the  room  was  used  at  times 
for  a  private  school.     J^oys  used  to  set  up  the  Semitic 


THROUGH  THE    VILLAGE  17 

pillars,  and  to  speculate  upon  the  mysteries  of  the  craft. 
The  affair  of  Morgan,  believed  to  have  been  murdered 
"out  in  York  State"  for  exposing  the  secret  rites,  was 
then  recent  and  blood-curdling.  Public  opinion  was 
overwhelmingly  against  the  order. 


1 8  QUAE  DIN 


CHAPTER   III 

FARMS    AND    FARM-LIFE 

The  territory  of  Ouabbin  comprises  little  more  than 
the  winding  valley  and  the  various  slopes  and  tribu- 
taries that  lead  to  it,  with  the  hills  already  described  ; 
and  it  will  be  seen  that  there  could  have  been  but  few 
large  spaces  for  cultivation.  Some  half-dozen  of  the 
farms  became  long  ago  rich  in  grass  and  grain  ;  but  in 
spite  of  the  labors  of  generations  in  reclaiming  bogs 
and  clearing  fields  of  stones,  the  area  of  productive  land 
does  not  appear  to  have  greatly  extended. 

Generally  a  couple  of  towering  elms  stood  near  each 
farmhouse  of  the  better  class,  and  not  far  away  were 
apple-trees  in  squares.  Clumps  of  lilacs  grew  by  the 
front  door  and  by  the  edge  of  the  garden  ;  while  along 
the  neighboring  road  were  rows  of  balloon-topped 
maples.  Each  homestead  became  conspicuous  in  the 
landscape,  since  the  American  elm  has  a  stately  grace 
that  belongs  to  no  other  tree  in  northern  latitudes. 

The  farms  lying  without  the  valley  were  and  still  are 
poor;  their  plain  lands  sometimes  bore  thin  crops ^of 
rye,  and  then,  lying  fallow,  were  overrun  with  mullein  ;  ^ 
their  undraincd  meadows  were  cold  and  wet,   and  in- 

'  At  the  pate  of  wliat  had  b?cn  Cliatcaiibriand's  house  in  Paris,  many  years 
ago,  there  was  a  large  mullein  in  blossom,  evidently  regarded  with  admiration  aS  a 
rare  plant. 


FAT^J/S  AND   FARM-LIFE  1 9 

fested  with  ''  poison  ivy  "  and  skunk  cabbage  ;  their 
hillsides  rough  and  ston}'  ;  their  pastures  gray  and 
brown,  or  *' run  to  bushes."  The  neighborhood  roads 
were  crooked,  hilly,  and  stony  or  sandy. 

The  houses  of  prosperous  farmers  were  neat  and 
comfortable,  though  invariably  plain  ;  but  those  of  the 
poorer  sort  were  miserable.  They  were  generally  of 
one  story,  always  of  wood,  clapboarded,  rarely  painted, 
and  dusky  with  weather-stain.  Nature's  gray  is  pictur- 
esque ;  so  are  dirt  and  rags,  in  the  eyes  of  artists  ;  but 
a  dwelling  that  is  gray  or  dingy  with  neglect,  and  rifted 
or  ''  chinky  "  with  dilapidation,  is  no  more  comfortable 
for  being  in  harmony  with  a  low-toned  landscape. 

In  those  times  the  chief  feature  of  every  farmhouse 
was  the  central  chimney,  which  was  large  and  square, 
having  a  fireplace  on  three  of  its  sides  in  as  many 
rooms,  the  largest  being  in  the  kitchen,  as  the  common 
living-room  was  called.  On  that  face  of  the  chimney 
also  was  the  opening  into  the  cavernous  brick  oven,  a 
''notion"  wdiich  the  Pilgrims  may  have  brought  over 
from  Holland.  Few  such  chimneys  are  now  in  exist- 
ence ;  and  the  universal  use  of  stoves,  both  for  warmth 
and  for  cooking,  has  made  the  brick  ovens  and  the  vast 
fireplaces,  with  crane,  pot-hooks,  and  trammels,  things 
of  the  past. 

At  bed-time  the  andirons  in  the  kitchen  fireplace 
were  drawn  aside,  and  the  brands  and  coals,  having 
been  piled  upon  the  hearth,  were  covered  thickly  with 
ashes.  When  this  was  carefully  done,  enough  embers 
were  found  in  the  morning  to  kindle  a  new  fire  ;  but  if 
the  embers  had  become  extinct,  it  was  necessarv  to 
strike  a  spark  with  flint  and  steel  into  a  box  of  tinder, 
and  then  use  a  splinter  of  wood  t'j^ped  with   sulphur  to 


20  QUADBIN 

start  a  blaze.  When  the  tinder  was  used  up  or  damp, 
as  sometimes  happened,  a  boy  was  sent  to  a  neighbor's, 
pjrhaps  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  to  bring  a  live  coal  with  a 
pair  of  tongs.  It  was  a  generation  which  had  not  made 
the  enervating  discovery  of  the  friction  match. 

Besides  the  table,  the  chest  of  drawers,  and  chairs, 
the  most  noticeable  objects  in  the  long  kitchen  were 
the  spinning-wheels,  —  a  small  one  for  flax,  getting  out 
of  use  more  than  sixty  years  ago,  and  a  large  one  for 
wool,  which  was  often  seen  down  (perhaps)  to  1850. 

It  is  a  pity  that  no  artist  undertook  to  represent  the 
attitudes  and  movements  of  a  well-formed  and  active 
damsel  in  the  management  of  the  great  spinning-wheel. 
Such  a  picture  may  have  been  painted,  but  the  writer 
never  chanced  to  see  one.  Nothing  in  spinning  de- 
mands great  strength  ;  but  there  is  requisite  a  free 
movement  of  the  arms,  an  elastic  pose,  and  a  long  glid- 
ing step,  advancing  and  retreating.  The  country  people 
said  there  was  a  "  knack  "  in  it.  Diana  took  no  such 
fascinating  poses  in  archery.  The  arms  of  a  harp- 
player,  however  graceful,  have  a  limited  movement. 
In  lawn-tennis  the  action  is  often  too  violent  or  con- 
strained to  1)0  beautiful.  Such  attitudes  and  actions 
have  been  often  enough  attempted  in  art,  but  they  are 
one  and  all  tame  beside  the  damsel  at  the  great  wheel. 

Look  at  her.  She  is  leaning  forward,  lightly  poised 
upon  the  toe  of  the  left  foot.  With  her  left  hand  she 
picks  up  by  the  end  a  long  slender  roll  of  soft  wool, 
and  deftly  winds  the  fibres  upon  the  point  of  the  steel 
spindle  before  her.  Now  holding  it  an  instant  with 
thumb  and  finger,  she  gives  a  gentle  motion  to  the 
wheel  with  the  wooden  finger  which  she  holds  in  her 
right  hand.      Meanwhile,  with  her  left    hand  she  seizes 


FARMS  AND  FARM-LIFE  21 

the  roll  of  wool  at  a  little  distance  from  the  spindle, 
measuring  with  practised  eye  the  length  that  will  be 
required  for  one  drawing.  Tlien,  while  the  hum  of  the 
wheel  rises  to  a  sound  like  the  echo  of  wind  in  a  storm, 
backward  she  steps,  one,  two,  three,  holding  high  the 
long  yarn  as  it  twists  and  quivers.  Then,  suddenly 
reversing  the  wheel,  she  glides  forward  with  a  long, 
even  stride,  and  lets  the  yarn  wind  upon  the  swift 
spindle.  Then  another  movement,  a  new  pinch  of  the 
roll,  a  new  turn  of  the  wdieel,  and  da  capo. 

The  backward  and  forward  movement,  the  left  hand 
controlling  the  yarn  while  the  right  governed  the 
wheel,  w^ere  as  picturesque  as  any  ever  made  "  by 
nymph,  by  naiad,  or  by  grace."  The  muscles  of  the 
chest  and  arms  were  in  free  and  beautiful  play,  and  the 
varied  movements  of  the  limbs,  alert,  emphatic,  and 
gliding  by  turns,  suggested  enough  to  have  fully  em- 
ployed the  genius  of  Praxiteles, 

There  were  also  here  and  there  among  old  people 
(  sixty  years  ago  ),  hand-looms  with  treadles  for  weaving 
the  cloth  for  ordinary  wear.  But  most  of  these  had 
been  banished  to  the  lumber-rooms. 

The  kitchen  was  adorned  in  autumn  with  festoons  of 
dried  apples  and  of  red  peppers,  bunches  of  ears  of  seed- 
corn,  dried  bouquets  of  sage,  savory,  mint,  and  other 
herbs  ;  and  about  the  fireplace,  in  racks  set  against  the 
walls,  hung  crookneck  squashes.  A  pot  of  blue  dye 
( fortunately  covered)  stood  in  the  corner  of  the  fire- 
place. Thisdeparted  with  the  spinning-wheels.  Adjt)in- 
ingthe  kitchen,  and  generally  in  an  addition,  or  lean-to, 
were  the  cheese  press  and  tubs,  diffusing  in  mild  weather 
the  faintly  sour  odor  of  whey.  There,  too,  were  shelves, 
j)n  which  lay  ripening  cheeses,  turned  daily,  and  polished 
with   butter  and  red  annatto  bv  diligent  hands. 


22  QUABBIN 

In  ancient  times  few  farmers  had  regular  supplies 
of  fresh  meat.  Except  at  the  autumnal  pig-killing,  or 
at  the  slaughter  of  a  lamb  in  the  spring,  or  very  rarely 
in  winter  of  a  steer,  their  tables  were  furnished  with 
salted  beef  and  pork  from  their  own  cellars,  and  with 
dried  salt  fish.  To  allay  the  irritation  caused  by  such 
viands,  many  vegetables  were  used ;  but  the  main 
dependence  was  pickled  peppers  and  ''cowcumbers," 
—  a  dangerous  indulgence,  one  would  think, — and 
apple-sauce.  This  latter  preserve  was  wholesome  and 
appetizing,  but  is  now  seldom  seen  ;  perhaps  on  account 
of  the  scarcity  of  cleanly  made  and  unfermented  cider. 
The  cider  was  boiled  down  almost  to  sirup,  and  pared 
and  cored  apples,  with  a  few  quinces  for  flavor,  were 
slightly  cooked  in  it ;  after  which  the  mass  was  poured 
into  a  clean  barrel,  and  kept  in  a  cool  place. 

It  will  be  seen  that  the  cellar  was  one  of  the  most 
important  parts  of  a  farmer's  house,  as  it  contained 
much  of  the  winter's  store.  In  early  times  a  house 
rarely  had  stone  underpinning,^  and  the  cellar  was 
protected  from  frost  by  banking  the  lower  part  of  the 
house  with  forest  leaves,  sawdust,  or  tan-bark.  Therein 
were  deposited  the  salt  beef  and  pork,  cabbages,  potatoes, 
and  other  roots,  in  bins,  a  part  of  the  supply  of  apples, 
and  several  barrels  of  cider  in  different  stasres  of 
development.  A  mug  fresh  from  the  spigot  was  a 
provocative  for  ]:)alate,  eyes,  and  nose  ;  its  fumes 
attacked  the  air-passages,  and  the  stomach  soon  glowed 
like  a  chafing-dish.  But  this  genial  stimulus  was  not 
enough  for  some  hardened  throats,  and  it  was  a  frequent 
custom  to  set  a  mug  of  the  oldest  before  the  fire,  with 

1  The  upper  tier  of  foundation  stones  wliich  sustained  the  house  above  the 
level  of  the  ground. 


FARMS  AXD  FARM-LIFE  23 

red  peppers  floating  in  it,  so  as  to  give  the  cider  a 
sharper  prickle,  and  the  jaded  stomach  a  fresh  thrill. 

Instead  of  carpets,  the  rooms  were  furnished  with 
party-colored  mats,  braided  of  woollen  rags.  The  bed- 
chambers were  often  partly  or  wholly  unfinished,  being 
mere  divisions  of  a  bare  attic.  In  time  of  a  winter's  storm, 
it  was  not  uncommon  for  boys  to  feel  the  snow  falling 
on  their  faces  as  they  lay  in  their  scantily  draped  beds; 
for  it  found  easy  entrance,  being  sifted  through  the 
loosely  shingled  roof,  or  blown  under  the  gaping  eaves. 

In  such  chambers  on  a  wintry  morning  the  breath 
was  visibly  congealed,  and  the  thickly  studded  points 
of  shingle-nails  were  bristling  with  crystals  that  gleamed 
like  stars  overhead. 

The  barn  was  a  sure  indication  of  a  farmer's  thrift. 
His  house  might  be  unpainted  and  out  of  repair  without 
greatly  injuring  his  reputation,  but  the  neglect  of  his 
barn  was  decisive.  For  the  barn  and  appendages  were 
the  storehouse  of  his  crops,  the  stable  and  fold  for  his 
animals,  and  the  shelter  of  his  wagon,  cart,  ploughs,  and 
tools.  It  needed  but  a  "lance  to  know  how  affairs  were 
going. 

In  some  cases  the  barn  was  a  desolation.  If,  further, 
the  wagon  was  unwashed  and  rickety,  the  horse  rough 
and  lean,  the  harness  clumsily  patched,  or  tied  with 
cords,  the  ploughs  left  to  rust,  the  yard  untidy  and 
undrained,  and  fowls  allowed  to  roost  on  whatever  was 
handiest,  it  would  be  a  natural  inference  that  the 
farmer's  shiftlessness  was  abetted  by  hot-peppered 
cider  or  new  rum. 

In  some  farms  the  wretched  management  frustrated 
any  kindly  intentions  of  nature  ;  for  the  application  of 
science  to  airriculture  was  all  to  come.     The  aim  was 


24  QUABBIN 

to  get  what  could  be  got  out  of  the  land  with  the  least 
outlay  ;  to  live  upon  the  produce  as  far  as  possible  ; 
and  to  provide  money  for  taxes  and  the  few  absolute 
necessities  by  the  sale  of  whatever  could  be  spared.  A 
fat  hog,  one  or  two  calves,  a  few  fowls  or  turkeys,  a 
little  butter  and  cheese, —  these  would  bring  the  cash 
required.  On  a  larger  farm  there  could  be  sold  grain, 
a  fat  ox,  a  colt,  or  firewood.  With  good  health  and 
sobriety,  the  conditions  were  not  too  hard,  but  in  many 
households  life  was  pinched  and  sordid.  Economy  is 
honorable,  and  may  be  gracious,  but  an  enforced  niggard- 
liness is  degrading.  For  those  who  must  struggle  with 
an  insoluble  equation  between  outgo  and  income,  books 
have  no  charm,  genial  society  is  unknown,  nature  has 
nothing  but  frowns,  and  the  future  no  hope  except  in 
final  rest  from  toil. 

On  the  more  prosperous  farms,  life  was  fairer,  and 
better  worth  living.  Still,  few  farmers  were  educated 
beyond  the  three  R's,  or  were  in  the  habit  of  reading  in 
hours  of  leisure,  excepting  the  Bible  and  weekly 
newspaper. 

During  the  winter  months  the  ordinary  work  was  ne- 
cessarily laid  by;  there  was  nothing  to  be  done,  except 
taking  care  of  animals  and  cutting  wood.  The  needs 
of  the  house  were  readily  supplied  from  last  winter's  cut- 
ting, thoroughly  seasoned  ;  but' periodically  there  was  an 
onslaught  upon  some  part  of  the  "wood-lot"  for  timber. 
The  cutting  of  trees,  when  resolved  upon,  was  as 
thorough  as  the  sweep  of  postmasters  after  the  coming 
in  of  a  new  president.  The  scar  on  the  hillside  could 
no  more  be  hidden  than  a  slash  on  the  farmer's  cheek 
in  shaving.     Wise,  conservative  forestry  was  unknown. 

When  snow  lay  on  the  roads  and  woodland  paths,  it 


FARMS  AND  FARM-LIFE  25 

was  easy  to  draw  out  the  great  logs  and  send  them  to 
mill  on  ox-sleds.  Under  the  mighty  loads  the  tracks 
soon  got  a  crystalline  polish,  and  sleighing-parties  and 
small  boys  rejoiced.  The  choppers,  though  standing  all 
day  in  snow,  did  not  suffer  from  cold.  In  the  forest 
there  was  no  wind,  and  exercise  kept  their  blood  in 
active  circulation.  Their  hands  were  cased  in  buckskin 
or  woollen  mittens,  their  bodies  in  loose  frocks  (longish 
blouses),  and  their  feet  in  heavy,  well-greased  boots. 
Often,  with  the  thermometer  at  zero,  a  hearty  man 
would  drop  his  axe  to  wipe  the  sweat  from  his  brow. 

The  winter,  too,  was  the  time  for  most  of  the  recrea- 
tions of  country  life  :  during  the  warmer  seasons  the 
pressure  of  work  left  little  leisure.  In  the  winter  the 
stock  of  provisions  was  full,  and  roasted  apples,  genial 
cider,  and  mince-pies, — which  never  pall  upon  a 
Yankee's  appetite,  —  were  almost  constant  luxuries. 
Then  was  the  time  for  evening  spelling-schools,  sing- 
ing-schools, apple-paring  bees,  sleigh-rides,  fishing 
through  the  ice,  and  other  country  frolics.  Then  boys 
trapped  partridges  and  rabbits.  Then  skaters  went 
skimming  over  rivers  and  ponds,  swaying  this  way  and 
that,  like  dancers  in  a  minuet.  Then  was  the  time  for 
the  great  slides  by  moonlight  down  long,  icy  hills,  —  a 
dozen  big  sleds,  one  after  the  other,  careering  down  at 
railroad  speed,  and  sometimes  overturning,  so  as  to  pile 
half  a  dozen  of  both  sexes  in  a  mealy  drift  by  the  way. 
Do  not  talk  to  a  Yankee  of  "  toboir^an  "  !  The  word 
belongs  to  Canadians,  who  are  welcome  to  it.  Toboi^g-aji, 
indeed!  As  well  call  aOual)l)in  farmer's  little,  scrimped 
parlor  a  "drawing-room." 

Farms  were  known  by  their  owners'  names,  at  least 
when  occupied  long  enough  to  give  a  notion  of  perma- 


26  QUABBIN 

nency,  as  "The  Estes  Place,"  "The  Sherman  Place,"' 
"  The  Deering  Place."  There  are  few  names  that  have 
not  been  changed  in  sixty  years  ;  and  only  one  farm,  it 
is  said,  remains  in  the  possession  of  a  descendant  of 
the  original  settler.  Each  family  has  furnished  emi- 
grants to  newer  States,  while  some  son  or  married 
daughter  has  generally  kept  the  homestead  for  a  time. 

In  the  village  changes  have  been  equally  frequent. 
The  builders  of  its  houses  are  dead,  their  children  are 
scattered,  and  strangers  have  taken  their  places.  In  a 
walk  of  a  mile  and  a  half  the  man  of  sixty  years  will 
not  pass  a  single  house  that  shelters  the  people  whom 
he  once  knew. 

But  a  reminiscent  mood  has  its  vagaries  like  revery. 
Thoughts,  events,  and  faces,  long  forgotten,  start  up  in 
a  hap-hazard  way,  and  the  mind  is  filled  with  flitting 
images  that  play  like  water-beetles  in  an  endless  maze. 
These  pictures  from  memory  need  a  frame,  and  the 
course  of  events  should  have  some  order.  Perhaps, 
therefore,  it  is  best  to  be  done  with  reminiscence,  and, 
like  graver  historians,  begin  at  the  beginning. 


SETTLEMENT  2/ 


CHAPTER  IV 

SETTLEMENT 

It  was  a  long  time  after  the  first  westward  movement 
from  the  seacoast  that  this  unpromising  region  was 
settled.  Not  until  the  rich  alluvial  lands  of  the  Con- 
necticut valley  were  taken  up,  and  the  fair  hillsides  east 
of  the  river  were  covered  with  farms,  was  there  any 
thought  of  occupying  this  narrow,  wet  valley,  and  the 
rugged  knolls  that  enclosed  it.  The  first  white  child 
was  born  in  Ouabbin  in  1735,  and  the  grant  of  the 
land  was  made  by  the  General  Court  in  1736.  The 
settlers  were  for  the  most  part  Scottish  Presbyterians 
from  Ulster.  Some  of  these  were ''mighty  hunters" 
and  wrestlers.  Two  of  them  were  hatters,  who  lived 
and  wrought  in  a  place  well  known  in  the  village. 
Furs  were  plenty,  but  polls  were  few  ;  and  what  are  hats 
without  heads  }  The  trade  would  seem  to  have  been 
preposterous.  Still  the  long  bows  twanged,  and  downy 
forms  were  felted  in  hot  water,  then  shaped  and  pressed  ; 
and  the  surplus  hats,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  found  sale  in 
older  settlements. 

But  little  is  known  of  Quabbin's  early  progress.  The 
increase  was  doubtless  slow.  The  few  Indians  were 
wanderers,  — basket-makers  or  beggars,  or  both.  After 
the  decline  of  the  French  power  in  Canada  there  were 
no  settlements    of    Indians    nearer   than    Stockbridge, 


2S  QUABBIN 

where  Jonathan  lulvvards  went  to  preach  after  leaving 
Northampton.  But  Ouabbin  had  been  a  favorite  resort 
of  red  men  ;  for  flint  arrow-heads  were  ploughed  up  long 
afterward  in  the  valley  lands,  and  stone  bowls,  pestles, 
and  hatchets  were  found  on  the  sites  of  ancient  wig- 
wams. The  Indians  who  haunted  the  frontier  a  hun- 
dred years  ago  were  vicious  and  degraded,  but  not 
without  shrewdness.  Said  an  Indian  woman  to  a  village 
housewife  one  day,  **  Will  ee  give  me  little  water,  or 
cider.-*  —  for  I  be  so  hungry  I  dunno  where  to  sleep 
over  night."  An  old  Indian,  who  had  roamed  the 
woods  all  his  life,  was  asked  what  was  the  surest  sign 
of  rain.  With  a  flicker  in  his  beady  black  eyes  he 
answered  in  his  deep  guttural  tones,  ''  Ee  sure  sign  o' 
rain  is  when  ee  black  all  round,  an'  pourin'  down  in  'e 
middle." 

Other  settlers  came,  some  with  Scottish,  but  more 
and  more  with  English  names.  The  latter  were  largely 
from  the  Old  Colony  and  from  towns  on  Cape  Cod. 
Two  brothers  built  a  grist-mill  at  the  centre  of  the 
village,  and  both  of  them,  together  with  a  neighbor, 
served  in  the  Revolutionary  army.  The  first  minister, 
also,  was  a  chaplain  under  Washington. 

The  meeting-house  was  built  in  1787,  when  the  parish 
was  organized;  and  the  minister  was  settled  in  1789, 
when  the  French  Assembly  were  beginning  their  strug- 
gle with  Louis  the  Unhappy.  The  site  for  the  meet- 
ing-house was  given  by  the  grandfather  of  General 
Joseph  Hooker,  well  known  in  our  civil  war.  At  first 
the  worshippers  sat  on  movable  benches;  but  in  1793 
the  pews  formerly  described  were  constructed,  and  the 
names  of  the  purchasers,  thirty  in  number,  have  been 
preserved.  Probably  the  population  of  the  parish  did 
not  exceed  two  liundrcd. 


SETTLEMENT  29 

In  1 8 14  the  belfry  was  built,  and  a  bell  was  given  by 
an  eccentric  man,  long  remembered.  Two  years  later 
the  parish  was  incorporated  as  a  town. 

This  must  suffice  for  history.  Dates  are  wearisome, 
and  the  happenings  in  a  small  community  are  in  no 
wise  interesting. 

But  there  is  another  view.  The  evolution  of  the 
best  type  of  a  modern  New  Englander  from  the  Provin- 
cial of  the  last  century,  if  one  could  compass  it,  might 
be  a  theme  worthy  of  a  philosophic  historian.  And, 
even  if  one  were  not  such  a  master  as  to  be  able  to 
educe  the  philosophy  of  history,  a  faithful  picture  of 
life  and  manners,  suggesting,  it  may  be  vaguely,  the 
moving  forces,  prejudices,  and  whims  of  the  old  time, 
must  have  value.  The  life  of  any  community  is  made 
up  of  infinite  details.  One  can  hardly  say  that  the 
smallest  point  in  town  management,  church  polity,  or 
domestic  economy  is  absolutely  unimportant.  Solid 
growth  is  never  visible  in  the  present  tense.  Further- 
more, generalizers  are  commonly  falsifiers,  sacrificing 
verity  to  epigram.  Even  truth  lies,  if  she  is  taken  too 
literally,  and  without  consideration  of  the  viilicu.  A 
bold  sketch  of  the  Rise  of  the  New  England  Town,  or 
of  the  Literary  Awakening,  or  of  the  Development  of 
the  Seventeenth  Century  Puritan  into  the  modern 
Yankee,  might  be  brilliant  writing,  but  would  be  most 
untrustworthy  unless  supported  by  a  multitude  of 
minute  and  apparently  insignificant  facts. 

The  chansfe  that  has  come  has  been  both  in  ideas  and 
life.  With  the  beginning  of  the  present  century  the 
ideas  of  provincial  Massachusetts  were  giving  way. 
Theological  asperity  was  softening;  a  man  might  vote 
against  the  ruling  majority  witliout  being  mobbed  ;  and 


30  QUABBIN 

liberty  of  thought  was  dimly  recognized  as  something 
possible.  The  change  was  not  simply  a  matter  of  dress, 
of  speech,  or  of  tone,  — there  was  a  growing  refinement 
in  these  externals,  — it  was  something  deeper:  no  less 
than  an  overturning  of  old  habits  of  thought,  a  general 
reform  in  conduct  among  the  opponents  of  the  state- 
church,  and  the  establishment  of  society  on  fairer  terms. 
The  change  began  in  the  larger  towns,  the  centres  of  in- 
fluence, and  was  manifested  in  the  decline  of  drinking 
customs,  in  a  revived  and  more  tolerant  church,  in  re- 
constructed schools,  and  enlightened  public  spirit. 

The  town  was  the  primordial  cell,  of  which  the  State 
and  nation  are  aggregations.  While  the  political  up- 
building was  going  on,  an  immense  development  of 
education  was  in  progress  ;  the  functions  of  the  church 
and  the  civil  power  were  disentangled  and  differentiated  ; 
manufactures  were  placed  on  new  foundations  by  dis- 
coveries in  sciences  and  arts  ;  railways  and  telegraphs 
furnished  new  arteries  and  nerves  ;  the  Puritan  em- 
bargo on  tlic  world's  literature  was  raised  ;  books  mul- 
tiplied, and  newspapers  became  as  necessary  as  breath  ; 
the  horizon  of  thought  and  the  scope  of  human  interest 
grew  to  be  as  broad  as  the  world  ;  the  bucolic  dialect 
and  costume  were  disappearing.  In  short,  it  came  to 
be  })ossible,  and  it  would  be  quite  possible  to-day,  for 
a  resident  of  Ouabbin  to  be  in  touch  with  the  world  of 
science,  to  exhibit  a  work  of  art  at  the  Paris  Salon,  or 
to  discuss  literature  and  history  with  the  leaders  of  the 
time.  Tliis  claim  is  potential  rather  than  actual  ;  but 
admitted  possibilities  are  something.  In  recent  years 
Parisian  critics  have  admired  the  sculpture  of  a  son  of 
Ouabbin  ;  in  the  Episcopal  churches  the  music  of  a 
Ouabbin  composer  is  justly  admired;  and  among  orni- 


SETTLEMENT  3 1 

thologists  a  native  collector  and  observer  is  widely 
known. 

From  Ouabbin  well-trodden  roads  lead  everywhere,  — 
in  which  respect  the  proverb  as  to  Rome  is  reversed,  — 
and  thither,  from  the  modern  thought  of  New  England, 
electric  lines  carry  intelligence  of  all  that  men  achieve, 
attempt,  or  admire.  A  hundred  years  ago  this  was 
notoriously  otherwise.  Equally  notorious  was  it  that 
in  the  great  centres  there  was  little  indigenous  litera- 
ture or  philosophy  worth  transmitting  to  Ouabbin  or 
elsewhere.  What,  one  may  ask,  were  the  influences 
and  the  successive  steps  by  which  this  people  has  been 
led  out  of  its  dull,  benighted,  and  plodding  existence } 
Ouabbin  is,  perhaps,  an  instance  as  fair  as  another, 
since  what  has  gone  on  in  its  narrow  bounds  has  been 
going  on  throughout  the  State  on  a  larger  scale.  The 
history  of  Quabbin,  then,  if  one  could  write  it,  would 
be  part  of  a  general  movement  upon  which  dogmatism 
would  be  easy  and  valueless,  and  which  will  be  best 
understood  in  a  free  narrative. 

The  few  events  in  Ouabbin's  annals  are  naturally 
grouped  under  the  reigns  of  its  successive  ministers. 
Writers  upon  literature  are  in  the  habit  of  classifying  it 
under  the  reigns  of  sovereigns,  few  of  whom  knew  or 
cared  about  books,  and  fewer  still  who  gave  literary 
genius  any  countenance  unless  that  genius  happened  to 
be  known  at  court.  But  it  is  more  appropriate  to  speak 
of  the  age  of  Shakespeare  and  Cervantes,  of  Moliere 
and  Milton,  of  Goethe,  Byron,  and  Balzac. 

In  Quabbin  the  case  is  different,  for  the  parish  min- 
isters, from  Joshua  I.  to  Robert  IV.,  were  men  of 
marked  individuality,  and  liad  each  an  influence,  (^f  one 
sort  or  another,  upon  the  development  of  the  town. 


32  QUABBIN 

It  will  be  remembered  that  about  fifty  years  passed 
from  its  settlement  to  the  ordination  of  the  first  minis- 
ter ( 1 736-1 789).  It  may  be  added  that  most  of  the 
important  changes  in  society  have  taken  place  during 
the  present  century. 

The  question  constantly  recurs,  how  was  it  that  the 
sombre  Puritan  became  a  poet,  romancer,  inventor, 
engineer,  or  scientist  ?  and  how  has  a  people  of  limited 
knowledge  and  narrow  views,  without  worldly  ambition, 
who  renounced  all  things  for  the  sake  of  the  life  to 
come,  and  were  content  to  toil  without  hope  of  enfran- 
chisement on  earth,  grown  into  the  marvellously  active 
and  versatile  society  of  to-day  ?  The  answers  must  be 
inferred  from  many  observations,  and,  beyond  doubt, 
they  will  vary  with  different  observers.  We  may  find 
something  to  think  of  in  looking  at  life  in  country  and 
village  homes,  at  town  and  church  meetings,  militia 
trainings,  and  popular  sports  ;  in  schools,  temperance 
societies,  psalmody,  and  current  literature  ;  and  all  the 
changes  will  be  found  to  be,  perhaps,  reciprocally  causes 
and  results.  The  movements  of  society  are  like  the 
processes  of  nature.  No  one  ever  saw  a  shovelful  of  star- 
dust,  yet,  we  are  told,  the  whole  round  globe  gets  an 
appreciable  coating  of  it  every  century.  Who  can  enter 
into  the  spiritual  evolution  which  began  with  Mistress 
Anne  Bradstreet,  and  culminated  in  her  descendant, 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  }  —  or  that  from  Priscilla  Mullen 
to  Longfellow  }  There  are  few  instances  in  history  of 
a  transformation  more  complete  than  has  been  seen  in 
Massachusetts  ;  and  perhaps  a  side-light  can  be  thrown 
upon  it  from  the  candlestick  set  in  Quabbin. 


ATMOSPHERE  ^ 


CHAPTER    V 

ATMOSPHERE 

In  good  old  colony  times, —  say  two  centuries  ago, — 
opinions  upon  religion  and  politics  were  practically  unan- 
imous. The  earlv  settlers  were  homo^-eneous  ;  for  idem 
seiitire  had  been  the  rule  of  association,  and,  as  Lieut. - 
Governor  Stoughton  declared,  "  God  had  sifted  three 
kingdoms  "  to  gather  them.  Dissent  from  the  "ortho- 
dox" form  of  Dissent  was  rigidly  kept  out  of  the  infant 
colony ;  and  in  later  times,  any  incipient  rebellion  was 
repressed  by  an  overpowering  public  sentiment.  Reli- 
gious dogma  was  embodied  in  the  Westminster  "  Shorter 
Catechism." 

In  colonial  politics,  the  aim  was  to  make  a  show  of 
respect  to  the  royal  authority,  while  the  real  power, 
under  the  charter,  should  rest  with  ''the  Great  and 
General  Court."  But  no,  not  the  real  power,  for  behind 
the  magistrates  and  deputies  were  the  clergy,  who  were 
the  unquestionable  rulers. 

But  unanimity  in  faith  and  practice  cannot  be  eternal 
under  any  form  of  irovernment,  and  in  the  course  of 
the  eighteenth  century  there  were  cleavages  in  society 
past  cementing.  The  French  war  brought  some  changes 
through  the  increasing  prominence  of  military  men, 
who  were  more  in  touch  with  tlie  great  world  than  with 
the  secluded  zealots  of    the  church  ;  but  a  far  deeper 


34  QUABBIN 

disturbing  force  was  the  long  war  of  the  Revolution. 
In  the  midst  of  arms,  it  is  not  only  law  and  letters  that 
are  silent  ;  conscience  is  often  dumb.  And  when  peace 
came,  the  returning  soldiers  brought  back  to  their 
native  hamlets  new  ideas,  and  often  vicious  habits  as 
well.  In  camps  and  trenches,  other  topics  were  more 
discussed  than  fate  and  free  will.  Beyond  doubt, 
soldiers  were  more  occupied  with  the  theories  of  Rous- 
seau, a  man  they  had  never  heard  of,  but  the  essence 
of  whose  doctrines  was  brought  to  their  comprehension 
by  the  clear  and  nervous  phrases  of  the  Declaration  of 
Independence.  "  Freedom  is  a  noble  thing,"  said  John 
Barbour,  and  it  ennobles  while  it  enfranchises.  With 
the  prospect  of  a  free  republic,  there  was  a  broadening 
of  mind,  and  the  gradually  enlightened  patriot  soldier, 
even  if  unconscious  of  any  revulsion  against  old  doctrine 
or  custom,  could  never  again  be  the  obedient  and 
contented  son  of  the  Puritan  Church  he  had  been. 

Many  of  the  soldiers  had  acquired  the  habits  of  dram- 
drinking  and  swearing,  and  in  time  threw  off  all  restraint. 
It  is  obviously  unjust  to  Jefferson  to  associate  such 
vices  with  his  political  views  ;  l)ut  it  had  happened  that 
tlie  people  of  Massachusetts  had  followed  the  lead  of 
John  Adams  in  politics,  as  they  had  followed  the  heads 
of  the  Church  in  religious  dogma.  A  Massachusetts 
Federalist  prior  to  1810  was  almost  certain  to  be  ortho- 
dox in  faith  ;  a  church  member  was  almost  certain  to  be 
a  Federalist.  Whenever  a  man,  from  conviction,  wilful- 
ness, or  bad  habits,  left  the  church  or  the  dominant  par- 
ty, no  half-way  course  was  possible ;  and  it  was  generally 
the  case  that  a  Democrat  was  a  Universalist,  a  Free- 
thinker, or  in  some  way  one  of  the  ''otherwise  minded." 
The  wealthy,  respectable,  and  temperate  people  were 


ATMOSPHERE  35 

Federalists,  and  supporters,  if  not  members,  of  the  Puri- 
tan church.  Outside  were  Democrats,  hard  drinkers,  and 
deists.  For  more  than  a  generation  the  line  of  demar- 
cation was  invariable.  The  hostile  feeling  between  the 
classes  deepened  often  to  malignant  hate,  and  was  felt 
wherever  men  came  in  contact. 

The  story  is  told  that,  early  in  the  century,  at  an 
election  in  Hadley,  after  the  ballots  were  counted,  an 
awful  rumor  spread  through  the  town  hall  that  a 
Democratic  vote  had  been  found  in  the  box.  Murmurs 
were  heard,  increasing  momentarily,  until  the  moderator 
confirmed  the  report  by  announcing  so  many  votes  for 
the  Federalist  candidates,  and  one  for  the  Democratic  ; 
and  then  the  uproar  became  tumultuous.  Who  could 
have  been  the  ungodly  and  abominable  creature  to 
cast  that  ballot .?  No  one  could  guess.  After  the 
proceedings  were  over,  an  old  man,  poorly  dressed,  and 
mounted  on  a  lean  and  furry  horse,  having  got  safely 
mto  the  highway,  shouted  back  to  the  people,  "■  It  was 
I  that  cast  that  'ere  Dimmercrat  vote  ! "  and  then  galloped 
away  to  escape  a  shower  of  stones. 

The  feeling  against  the  Democrats  became  more 
intense  in  consequence  of  the  partiality  of  Jefferson  for 
France.  The  cause  of  France  was  considered  the 
cause  of  irreligion,  and  good  men  felt  bound  to  protest 
against  "  opening  the  flood-gates  of  infidelity."  Obvi- 
ously, so  long  as  the  church  as  a  body  took  a  decided 
stand  in  politics,  there  could  be  no  dispassionate  con- 
sideration of  public  questions.  These  had  been  decided 
in  advance.  Something  of  the  same  spirit  has  survived. 
To  a  purely  economic  argument  upon  the  tariff,  no 
matter  by  whom  made,  it  has  been  held  to  be  a  sufficient 
answer  that  Democrats  occupied  an  immoral  ground   in 


36  QUABBIN 

regard  to  slavery  thirty  years  ago.  In  some  respects 
it  was  a  misfortune  to  a  man,  in  the  last  generation,  to 
have  been  reared  in  a  family  of  Democratic  proclivities. 
A  Democrat  was  a  man  to  be  distrusted  and  shunned. 
Even  a  man  of  genius  like  Hawthorne  found  himself 
•'  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  hedge."  Society  in  Salem 
was  almost  wholly  of  one  way  of  thinking,  and  Haw- 
thorne was  made  to  feel  his  isolation.  His  friends  were 
not  of  the  ruling  party  or  sect.  However  contented  he 
may  have  been  with  his  beliefs,  the  reprobation  of  the 
**  best  people "  must  have  given  a  deeper  tinge  of 
melancholy  to  his  never  too  sunny  nature,  and  added  to 
the  gloom  that  broods  over  his  otherwise  matchless 
stories. 

It  is  needless  to  say  there  were  no  Hawthornes  in 
Quabbin,  nor,  in  fact,  any  Democrats  with  too  delicate 
susceptibilities  ;  for  ignorance  and  hard  usage  had,  so 
to  speak,  toughened  their  skins.  As  the  rule  of  church 
and  society  was  firm  and  uncompromising,  the  opposi- 
tion was  rude  and  defiant.  The  existence  of  this 
recalcitrant  minority  was  familiar  enough,  but  the  first 
divergence  was  well  begun  early  in  this  century,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  offer  a  suggestion  as  to  its  origin. 
Neither  of  the  Revolutionary  soldiers  from  Quabbin  had 
any  sympathy  with  this  opposition  ;  and  the  influences 
that  reared  up  Democrats  in  defiance  of  public  opinion, 
and  unbelievers  among  people  whose  life  was  one  act 
of  worship,  must  have  come  from  some  other  district  •, 
one  might  as  well  expect  to  see  a  palm-tree  growing 
on  Great  Quabbin,  or  a  walrus  disporting  in  the  tepid 
water  of  the  cove.  In  the  course  of  years  neighbor- 
hoods change  by  removals,  and  even  sixty  years  ago 
some  odd  people  had  come  to  the  town. 


ATMOSPHERE  IJ 

There  was  a  grave  and  silent  man  who  came  now 
and  then  to  the  store  and  to  mill,  but  never  to  meeting, 
and  who  never  sought  the  least  intimacy.  One  day 
the  mystery  of  this  taciturn  being  was  revealed.  Say 
not  "revealed,"  but  whispered  with  horror.  He  was  a 
deist,  had  been  a  printer  in  Boston,  and  had  even 
printed  Bibles,  1)ut  had  been  led  astray  by  infidel  books. 
The  tone  in  which  the  word  "deist"  was  uttered  sus:- 
gested  what  no  epithet  could  have  conveyed.  The 
man  was  industrious,  temperate,  and  honest  ;  but  the 
name  of  deist  was  a  convict's  brand. 

Another  who  never  went  to  meeting,  at  least  never 
to  tJic  meeting,  was  a  self-taught  mathematician,  who 
was  sometimes  found  stretched  on  the  floor  before  the 
fire,  working  out  on  a  slate  the  calculations  for  an  eclipse. 
It  was  said  he  voted  the  Democratic  ticket,  but  he  had 
little  to  say  about  religion  or  politics,  and  was  sobriety 
itself.  He  believed  in  "nater,"  and  thought  that  to 
"  du  as  you'd  be  done  by  "  was  a  good  enough  rule  of 
life. 

An  old  farmer,  who  called  himself  "  a  Dimmercrat 
and  Univarsaller  "  once  tried  to  tempt  a  villager  into 
an  argument  upon  fore-ordination.  The  son  of  the 
latter  was  near  by,  and  heard  a  few  sentences  like  these  : 
"  Eff  God  ain't  the  author  of  evil,  an'  ain't  responsible 
for  the  damnation  of  his  critters,  that  is,  ef  they  air  to 
be  damned,  I  sh'd  like  to  know  why  !  Ef  things  is 
fixed,  either  he  fixed  'em,  or  he  stood  by  an'  let  some- 
body else  fix  'em.  Ef  they  ain't  fixed,  then  he  don't 
know  what's  comin',  an'  ain't  omnishent."  When  this 
point  was  reached,  the  father  observed  his  boy  listening, 
and  discovered  that  there  were  "  chores  "  for  him  to  do 
in  the  barn. 


38  QUA  B  BIN 

A  lawyer,  who  lived  about  three  miles  away,  had  a 
great  reputation  for  wit  and  *'  sarse  "  in  tlie  justices' 
and  county  courts  ;  and  thou£i;h  imperfectly  educated, 
he  was  a  man  of  ability,  quite  superior  to  any  one  in 
the  region.  He,  too,  was  a  Democrat  and  Universalist. 
He  had  a  near  relative  in  Ouabbin,  but  there  was  not 
the  least  intercourse  between  them,  not  even  a  "bowing 
acquaintance;"  and  their  relationship  was  not  known 
by  the  younger  members  of  the  Ouabbin  family  until 
both  had  passed  away.  Still,  there  had  never  been  any 
cause  of  quarrel,  beyond  the  antipathy  between  hostile 
creeds. 

There  were,  now  and  then,  rifts  in  the  wall  that 
hemmed  in  Quabbin  ;  and  things  to  set  its  young  people 
thinking. 


THE  FIRST  MINISTER  39 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE    FIRST    MINISTER 

The  ambition  of  the  village  that  was  growing  up 
about  the  gristmill  at  the  foot  of  Great  Quabbin  had 
awakened  some  interest  in  the  adjacent  region  ;  and 
there  were  coarse  but  not  malevolent  comments  upon 
its  rising  pretensions. 

It  will  be  remembered  that  there  were  thirty  purchas- 
ers of  pews  in  the  meeting-house,  and  these  probably 
included  more  than  half  of  the  heads  of  families  in  the 
parish ;  but  the  parish  boundaries  were  narrow,  and 
many  came  to  the  stores,  mill,  and  meeting,  from 
beyond  its  limits.  This  was  the  case  with  many  excel- 
lent people,  and  it  was  also  true  of  a  set  of  the  most 
depraved  and  drunken  creatures  that  ever  infested  a 
village. 

Quabbin  did  not  become  a  ''town"  until  1816;  it 
was  to  an  outlying  "parish"  that  the  minister  was 
called  ;  but  the  community  was  awake  and  alert,  after 
its  deliberate  fashion.  It  had  a  mill  to  begin  with,  and 
plenty  of  water-power  for  more  works  projected. 

The  mother  town  was,  and  has  always  remained,  one 
of  the  most  sluggish  of  rural  communities.  It  did  not 
appear  poverty-stricken,  but  limp  and  lifeless.  One 
might  have  walked  the  length  of  its  ample  common, 
around  which  a  dozen  close-blinded  houses  were  dozing, 


40  QUABBIX 

and  not  have  seen  a  human  being  abroad.  When  a 
team  passed  along  the  sandy  road  it  crawled  so  slowly 
that  you  thought  the  animals  and  driver  asleep,  and 
moving  in  a  dream.  Even  the  old  tavern  had  scarcely 
an  eye  open.  The  only  life  of  the  flat  landscape  was 
in  tlie  crows  searching  for  hidden  acorns  by  the  road- 
sides or  pulling  up  replanted  corn  in  the  fields.  So 
strong  was  the  impression  of  this  torpor,  that  to  look 
for  any  gayety  there  seemed  as  impossible  as  to  expect 
a  blossom  from  a  broomstick.  Nevertheless,  it  was 
averred  that  a  stanza  had  once  been  composed  there, 
an  actual  stanza  of  four  lines  of  verse.  It  m-ght  have 
been  regarded  as  a  lying  legend  had  it  not  been  for 
the  evidence  of  the  'Mocal  color."  This  is  what  the 
mockers  were  supposed  to  have  said  or  sung  :  — 

"  Let  us  go  down  to  l'uckeito\vn,i 
And  see  them  raise  the  steeple  ; 
There  we  will  stay,  and  hear  Josh  pray 
To  save  his  wicked  i)eople." 

This  effort  was  exhausting  and  fatal  ;  as  in  the  case  of 
the  aloe,  which  dies  after  its  centennial  blossoming,  the 
unknown  and  inglorious  poet  drooped,  and  never  rhymed 
again. 

The  minister  of  Ouabbin,  who  had  been  a  chaplain  in 
the  army  of  the  Revolution,  was  near  middle  age  when 
settled  in  1789.  His  salary  was  fixed  at  seventy  pounds, 
besides  which  the  parish  purchased  a  house  and  a  small 
farm  for  him,  and  agreed  to  supply  him  with  firewood. 
He  lived  to  be  over  four-score,  and,  in  his  later  years 
at  least,  was  a  picturesque  figure,  never  forgotten  by 
those  who  had  seen  him. 

1  "  Piickcrtown,"  i.e.  Quabbin.  'Y^o  fucker  suggests  a  mincing  facial  expres- 
sion, either  of  vanity  or  disdain. 


THE  FIRST  MINISTER  4 1 

His  white  hair,  long  and  slightly  waving,  fell  upon 
his  broad,  square  shoulders,  and  the  soft  folds  of  his 
double  chin  rested  upon  a  white  necktie.  His  full 
face  (clean  shaved  thrice  a  week),  his  shapely,  but 
rather  prominent  nose,  and  his  steady  blue  eyes,  alto- 
gether w^ore  a  look  of  dignity  and  benevolence.  In 
form  he  was  short  and  sturdy,  but  not  in  the  least 
unwieldy.  On  the  street  he  carried  a  silver-topped 
cane,  and  he  wore  his  black  silk  gown  not  only  in  the 
pulpit  but  (in  summer  time)  in  making  pastoral  calls. 
He  was  the  last  of  Quabbin's  ministers  to  wear  it,  and 
much  of  the  stately  grace  of  the  olden  time  went  out 
with  its  flowing  sleeves.  It  was  an  impressive  visible 
illustration  when  he  raised  these,  as  if  tremblingly, 
while  he  repeated  the  solemn  words,  "  And  the  smoke 
of  their  torment  ascendeth  up  forever  and  ever.''^  His 
voice  was  bland,  resonant,  and  measured,  and  deep  in 
power  rather  than  in  pitch. 

He  had  a  colleague  ten  years  before  his  death,  and 
as  pastor  cineidtus  did  not  preach  very  often  in  the 
period  covered  by  the  recollections  of  a  man  of  sixty  ; 
but,  in  figure,  face,  manners,  and  voice,  as  he  appeared 
at  more  than  four-score,  he  would  have  been  a  good 
specimen  to  show  of  the  "  degeneracy  of  Americans." 

He  had  been  fairly  well  educated  for  the  time,  although 
he  had  been  unable  to  complete  his  collegiate  course. 
Judging  from  his  library,  his  reading  must  have  been 
mainly  professional,  in  biblical  commentaries,  church 
history,  and  polemics.  Neither  he  nor  any  clergyman 
in  Western  Massachusetts  could  have  regarded  the 
study  of  general  literature  as  other  than  a  vain  pleasure 
or  an  idle  curiosity  ;  not  absolutely  harmful,  l)ut  wholly 

1  The  story  is  told  of  Dr  Clialmors,  bat  is  true  also  of  this  nuiu>tcr. 


42  QUA  B  BIN 

unimportant  compared  with  the  "one  thing  needful." 
His  sermons  were  plain  and  vigorous  expositions  of 
Scripture,  without  any  pretence  of  rhetoric,  or  illustra- 
tion from  nature  or  science,  or  the  '*  sentiment "  to 
which  modern  ears  are  accustomed.  It  was  a  time 
when  people  were  nurtured  and  inspired  by  the  Bible,  the 
*'  Pilgrim's  Progress,"  AUeine's  "  Alarm  to  the  Uncon- 
verted," and  Baxter's  "Saints'  Rest;"  and  when  the 
echoes  of  Jonathan  Edwards'  thunder  had  scarcely  died 
out  of  the  air.  The  first  minister's  style  of  speech  was 
not  Yankee,  as  that  adjective  is  understood  ;  the  old 
British  rotund  energy  had  survived  in  it.  He  freely  used 
colloquial  elisions,  such  as  did/it,  hain't,  shdnt,  etc., 
just  as  they  are  printed  in  the  first  editions  of  Edwards' 
works,  and  in  many  English  books  of  the  seventeenth 
and  eisrhteenth  centuries,  but  there  was  no  offensive 
drawl,  nor  any  debasing  of  vowel  tones. 

In  spite  of  his  stern  theology  he  was  kindly  and 
Jnmian  in  his  intercourse  with  his  people.  He  had 
been  an  athlete  in  his  youth,  and  few  men  were  better 
judges  of  a  foot-race,  a  tug-of-war,  or  a  jum ping-match. 
He  could  fence  also,  and  go  through  the  manual  of 
arms;  and  in  the  War  of  1 8 12  he  had  proved  to  be 
the  only  man  in  the  region  competent  to  drill  the 
company  of  artillery  that  went  from  an  adjoining  town 
for  the  defence  of  Boston. 

It  was  something  to  have  seen  and  talked  with  a  man 
who  hatl  known  Lafayette,  and  had  carried  musket  and 
Bible  under  the  command  of  Washington.  The  imagi- 
nation (even  of  a  boy)  took  fire,  and  his  heart  throbbed 
at  the  thought. 

When  the  old  man  was  near  his  end,  the  neighbors, 
old  and  young,  came,  according  to  the  primitive  cus- 


THE  FIRST  AHXISTER  43 

torn,  to  see  how  a  Christian  could  die.  They  looked 
with  awe  upon  the  slow  and  laborious  heaving  of  his 
powerful  chest,  the  vacancy  of  his  fast-dimming  eyes, 
and  the  fitful  tremor  of  the  hands  that  had  often  rested 
on  their  heads.  The  scene  was  painfully  protracted  ; 
it  was  nearly  a  whole  day  after  he  was  ( in  country 
phrase)  **  struck  with  death"  before  his  breathing 
ceased. 

The  man  still  living,  whose  hand  more  than  once 
was  clasped  with  that  of  the  first  minister  of  Ouabbin, 
might  well  reflect  what  a  stretch  is  covered  by  two 
lives,  —  the  loss  of  Canada  by  the  French  ;  the  attain- 
ment of  independence  by  the  United  States  ;  the 
French  Revolution  ;  the  meteoric  career  of  Bonaparte, 
—  Marengo,  Jena,  Austerlitz,  Borodino,  Waterloo,  St. 
Helena  ;  the  birth  of  literature  and  philosophy  in  Ger- 
many ;  in  Great  Britain  the  appearance  of  Johnson, 
Burns,  Coleridge,  Scott,  Byron,  Keats,  Wordsworth, 
Tennyson,  and  Browning ;  a  dawning  literature  in 
America ;  the  era  of  gas,  railways,  steamships,  tele- 
graphs, evolution,  the  spectroscope,  bacteriology  ;  the 
Civil  War  in  the  United  States,  with  all  that  followed  ; 
the  sudden  military  prominence  of  Germany  ;  so  much, 
and  more,  past  ail  enumeration,  in  the  space  of  two 
lives ! 

Men  are  prone  to  think  their  particular  experiences 
unusual,  but  it  would  be  difficult,  probably,  to  name 
another  period  in  which  the  events,  discoveries,  and 
movements  were  so  momentous  to  mankind  as  that 
extending  from  the  fall  of  Quebec  to  that  of  Richmond 
or  of  JNIetz.  Little  was  heard  in  Ouabbin  sixty  years 
ago  of  the  far-echoing  footsteps  of  T^ite  in  the  Old 
World. 


44  QUABBIISr 

It  is  necessary  to  look  at  the  condition  of  the  church 
and  parish  tkirinij,  this  long  jKistorate. 

There  was  no  interference  with  healthful  amuse- 
ments, excejit  in  certain  over-zealous  families.  Round- 
ball  on  the  common  in  summer,  and  coasting  on  the 
hillsides,  and  skating  on  the  pond  in  winter,  were  eagerly 
followed;  but  the  line  was  drawn  at  dancing.  The 
country  balls  took  place  at  the  old-fashioned  taverns, 
■ — not  always  free  from  scandal, — and  were  attended 
only  bv  the  Worldly  and  irreligious.  A  youth  of  sixteen 
in  Ouabbin,  when  he  first  saw  people  dancing  to  the 
sound  of  music,  thought  their  capers  silly ;  but  it 
appeared  otherwise  later,  when  he  threaded  his  way 
through  a  cotillon,  led  by  a  pretty  girl. 

As  the  minister  went  his  rounds,  everybody  saluted 
him  with  respect  and  good-will  ;  and  children  were 
instructed  to  draw  to  one  side  of  the  road  and  make 
bows  or  "  kerchys "  as  he  passed.  In  the  minds  of 
some  of  them  this  ceremony  was  associated  with  the 
approach  of  a  floating  silken  robe ;  and  once,  when  the 
minister's  new  colleague  came  upon  a  small  party 
engaged  in  making  mud-pies,  it  appeared  to  them  that 
as  he  wore  no  gown  he  was  not  entitled  to  a  salute. 
One  little  urchin  of  four  got  a  tingling  reception  at 
home  for  having  refused  to  ''bow  to  the  minister."  It 
was  feared  the  rebellion  might  be  prophetic. 

The  minister  lived  prudently,  reared  a  family,  mostly 
of  boys,  and  if  he  did  not  become  rich,  was  always 
comfortable  and  self-respecting.  It  was  not  the  fashion 
then  to  cosset  the  pastor, —  to  embroider  slippers  for 
him,  to  give  him  "donation  parties,"  nor  send  him  to 
Europe  for  a  summer  vacation. 

Exchanges   were    infrequent,    but    sometimes    there 


THE  FIRST  MINISTER  45 

was  a  sermon  from  a  veteran  in  service,  or  from  a 
professor  of  the  college  not  far  away.  D.D.'s  were  un- 
common, and  it  was  then  supposed  that  a  man  had  to 
become  a  patriarch  as  old  as  Abraham  before  attaining 
such  a  diiinitv. 

The  minister's  calis,  though  functional  in  a  way, 
were  neighborly  and  social.  The  affairs  of  the  church 
and  parish,  personal  religion,  and  the  training  and 
catechising  of  the  children,  were  lightly  touched  upon  in 
presence  of  the  family, —  all  the  members  within  reach 
having  been  summoned  to  meet  the  good  man  in  the 
parlor.  Generally  the  interview  was  closed  with  a  brief 
prayer.  Then  was  set  out  a  plate  of  cake  and  a  decanter 
of  wine  or  of  Santa  Cruz  rum.  The  latter  was  taken 
with  hot  water  in  winter,  and  cold  in  summer,  and  with 
two  lumps  of  sugar.  Then,  with  a  parting  word  for 
each,  and  a  gentle  touch  upon  the  heads  of  the  chil- 
dren, the  minister  rustled  out  v/ith  his  silk  gown,  and 
went  his  way. 

In  his  pastorate  of  nearly  half  a  century  he  was 
never  involved  in  trouble  or  controversy.  A  man  of 
keen  perceptions  and  courage,  who  was  given  to  out- 
bursts of  sympathy  and  to  upliftings  of  enthusiasm, 
could  not  have  maintained  such  serenity  in  view  of 
the  life  around  him.  It  is  true,  the  regular  worship 
was  never  intermitted  :  the  Bible  was  expounded,  and 
its  warnings  and  promises  rehearsed  ;  but  upon  the 
majority  of  the  people  these  formalities  made  no  real 
impression,  and  a  large  number  were  besotted,  dull,  and 
boorish.  There  were  hoary  heads  without  crowns  of 
honor.  There  were  horses  that  were  accustomed  to 
back  out  from  the  tavern  shed,  and  trot  soberly  home 
without  guidance,   when   late    at   night  their  stupefied 


46  QUABBIN 

masters  crawled  into  their  wagons.  Brave  women  were 
striving  to  cover  the  family  nakedness,  and  to  put  a  good 
face  upon  despair.  Modest  girls  had  reason  to  shrink 
from  young  men  whose  education  was  acquired  at  the 
har  of  the  tavern.  The  schools  barely  lifted  the  chil- 
dren above  illiteracy.  Uncleanliness  in  manners  and 
speech,  if  not  universal,  caused  little  remark.  As  for 
literature  and  science,  they  were  not  only  unknown, 
but  inconceivable.  Did  the  minister  see  all  this  .?  Prob- 
ably he  did,  but  for  all  shortcomings  the  only  remedy 
then  known  was  "the  stated  preaching  of  the  Word," 
as  it  had  been  from  the  beginning.  There  were 
just  so  many  who  would  refuse  the  offers  of  grace  ; 
and  so  many  who  would  become  slaves  to  appetite, 
and  be  content  with  ignorance,  poverty,  and  degra- 
dation, as  long  as  the  supplies  of  rum  and  tobacco  held 
out. 

The  minister  was  prudent,  kind,  and  just,  and  did  his 
duty  according  to  the  light  of  his  time.  The  era  of 
active  and  burning  sympathy,  and  of  practical  philan- 
thropy, had  not  dawned  upon  Ouabbin,  nor  upon  the 
State. 

Is  it  an  injustice  to  suggest  that  the  scarcely  veiled 
fatalism,  which  was  then  the  indispensable  doctrine  cf 
Calvinism,  had  something  to  do  with  this  state  of 
things.''  Predestination,  according  to  hair-splitting 
theory,  was  not  admittedly  fatalism  ;  but  it  appears 
certain  that  the  doctrine,  according  to  which  the  num- 
ber of  the  ''elect"  was  foreknown,  while  the  vast  re- 
mainder of  the  unredeemed  were  left  without  hope, 
must  have  accustomed  the  self-contained  saints  to  re- 
gard as  inevitable  the  sins  and  woes  of  their  less  wise 
and  less  fortunate  fellow-men.     This  was  before  philan- 


THE   FIRST  MINISTER  47 

thropy  appeared  as  an  active  force,  and  before  volun- 
tary societies  were  established  to  do  the  work  for  which, 
logicallv,  the  church  was  all-sufficient.  But  philan- 
thropic societies  were  not  organized  until  the  tension  of 
fore-ordination  and  kindred. doctrines  had  begun  to  relax. 
In  this  matter  a  surprising  spectacle  became  visible  to 
the  world  a  few  years  later:  no  less  than  a  total  change 
of  basis  and  of  method,  —  a  change  of  spirit,  a  new-born 
sympathy,  an  attempt  to  realize  the  brotherhood  of 
men  by  mutual  effort,  as  well  as  by  the  "appointed 
means"  before  relied  on;  while  yet  the  creed  re- 
mained untouched.  No  heresy  was  preached  in  Ouab- 
bin  or  its  neighborhood.  The  Shorter  Catechism 
continued  in  diligent  use.  There  was  nothing  positive 
to  indicate  that  Calvin  and  Jonathan  Edwards  were  net 
still  the  pillars  of  the  New  England  church.  But  if 
doctrines  in  their  essence  had  suffered  no  change,  and 
if  the  character  of  the  sermons,  and  the  methods  of 
work  among  ministers  and  deacons  had  remained  what 
they  were,  the  narrow  and  dull  provincial  Yankee  of 
sixty  years  ago  would  have  been  a  narrow  Provincial 
still.  In  the  tone  and  temper  of  theology  was  the  key 
of  the  situation. 

So  although  New  England  "orthodoxy"  is  nominally 
what  it  was,  practically  it  has  been  changed  from  pin- 
nacle to  foundation-stone.  The  change  consists  in  ig- 
noring certain  doctrines  which  run  counter  to  the  sense 
of  justice  and  the  nobler  instincts  of  mankind.  From 
a  lifeless  formula,  religion  has  beccMiie  a  practical  force. 
By  co-operation  with  lay  societies,  with  education,  and 
with  schemes  for  social  enlightenment  and  beneficence, 
the  church  regained  its  ascendency,  with  a  just  title  to 
gratitude  and  reverence. 


48  QUABBIN 

Are  we  to  hold  the  venerable  first  minister  responsi- 
ble for  not  establishing  in  Ouabbin  a  Total  Abstinence 
Society,  an  Anti  Slavery  Society,  a  model  school,  or  a 
Society  for  Foreign  Missions?  By  no  means.  The 
time  for  them  had  not  come. 


PATIENT  EMILY  49 


CHAPTER  VII 

PATIENT     EMILY 

QuABBiN  was  not  a  fertile  ground  for  romance. 
There  were  few  social  inequalities,  clandestine  mar- 
riages, or  startling  events.  The  rich  men  were  never 
numerous,  and,  after  the  time  of  the  three  courtly 
brothers  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  there  were 
few  who,  if  faithfully  drawn,  would  make  attractive 
figures  in  a  story.  The  general  character,  to  the  casual 
observer,  was  humdrum,  and  as  void  of  prominences  as 
a  turnip.  There  was  not  in  the  town  an  author,  wit, 
cynic,  or  recluse  ;  nor  had  there  been  a  murder  or  a 
suicide.  Such  a  lapse  as  the  presence  of  a  child  unac- 
counted for  did  not  occur  five  times  in  a  centurv.  A 
tragic  or  romantic  scene  in  Ouabbin  would  have  been 
as  improbable  as  a  Spanish  bull-fight.  But  life  has  both 
anxiety  and  charm,  even  for  the  most  commonplace  of 
men  ;  and  in  his  own  view  the  trials  of  each  man 
may  be  as  momentous  as  those  which  beset  King  Lear. 
Few  have  the  power,  like  the  rustic  Yankee,  to  batten 
under  hatches  any  revolt  of  feeling,  and  to  walk  the 
deck  with  an  air  of  unconcern.  The  city  Yankee  (as 
Dr.  Holmes  has  observed)  differs  from  his  country 
cousin  chiefly  in  flexibility  of  facial  muscles,  and  capa- 
city of  varying  expression. 

George    Haskins  was    habitually   **  shut  up"  like    a 


50  QUABBIN 

mud-turtle  (if  a  change  of  figure  may  be  allowed),  and 
the  few  words  that  escaped  him  came  grudgingly,  like 
coins  from  a  miser's  pocket.  George  had  good  height, 
a  robust  frame,  and  a  dark  complexion  tinged  with  rose, 
and  was  sufficiently  active  in  movement  ;  but  either 
heredity  or  Puritanic  discipline  had  rendered  him  silent, 
and  deliberate  in  action,  and  had  made  a  mask  of  a  face 
that  might  have  been  mobile  and  attractive.  Seldom 
was  a  muscle  relaxed  about  his  shaven  lips ;  so  that 
when,  on  rare  occasions,  a  fit  of  laughter  seized  him, 
his  features  were  totally  upset  and  unrecognizable. 
The  only  constant  sign  of  life  was  in  his  wily  brown 
eyes.  Sometimes  even  the  eyes  were  motionless,  like 
still  pools  ;  and  again  there  were  slight  gleams  in  them, 
as  if  microscopic  gold-fish  were  playing  in  the  aqueous 
humor. 

He  was  a  well-to-do  farmer,  and  lived  in  a  good  old- 
fashioned  house  sheltered  by  a  couple  of  noble  elms. 
His  widowed  mother  had  the  care  of  the  house  and  of 
all  domestic  affairs.  She  was  above  medium  height, 
and,  though  slender,  had  the  wiry  muscles,  the  bold 
features,  the  resolution,  and  the  complexion  that  belong 
with  the  bilious  temperament.  Nothing  escaped  her 
eye.  Her  cheeses  were  renowned,  and  her  stamp  upon 
pats  of  golden  butter  made  them  current  as  coin.  Yet, 
like  her  son,  she  had  little  to  say.  The  purchase  or 
sale  of  cows  or  other  live-stock  was  considered  and 
decided  between  her  and  George  by  fragments  of 
phrase,  and  by  looks  and  nods  untranslatable  by  others. 
It  is  not  to  be  supposed,  however,  that  she  did  not  keep 
up  a  deal  of  thinking  of  a  practical  sort. 

No  persons  were  more  constant  at  meeting  than  Mrs. 
Haskins    and    her    son.      They    had    an    old-fashioned 


VATIENT  EMILY  5  I 

chaise  ("  shay"  they  called  it)  that  carried  two,  and  no 
more,  drawn  by  a  sedate  animal  called  a  **  colt,"  but 
already  past  middle-age.  The  colt  jogged  on  with  due 
gravity  on  "  Sahberdays,"  but  could  "  let  out,"  and 
throw  gravel  with  the  swiftest,  when  George  drove  in 
his  wagon  to  store  or  mill. 

Mrs.  Haskins  was  firmly  grounded  in  Scripture,  and 
could  follow  all  the  texts  cited  in  the  longest  doctrinal 
sermon.  She  held  to  the  views  of  the  first  minister, 
and  had  but  a  moderate  opinion  of  his  colleague.  It 
was  her  delight  to  hear  again  and  again  the  doctrines 
of  election  and  reprobation,  and  she  never  considered 
a  discourse  complete  which  did  not  end  with  a  repre- 
sentation of  the  endless  woe  of  the  finally  impenitent. 
She  chewed  upon  these  dogmas,  as  she  chewed  her 
sprigs  of  caraway  ;  and  her  head,  overtopped  by  a 
high-curved  green  silk  calecJie  (calash),  moved  slowly 
backward  and  forward  with  evident  satisfaction  at  the 
emphatic  points  of  the  sermon. 

One  day,  when  this  linked  array  of  doctrines  had 
been  brought  out  with  unusual  effect,  Mrs.  Haskins 
chanced  to  look  up  at  the  gallery,  and  there  saw  John 
Foster,  a  man  who  seldom  came  to  meeting,  and  who 
was  known  to  be  far  from  orthodox.  He  was  a  wool- 
sorter  at  the  mill,  and  had  time  in  his  solitary  work  to 
think.  He  was  a  pale  man,  with  a  nimbus  of  light  hair, 
reserved  in  manner,  blameless  in  life,  and  not  in  the 
least  capable  of  making  money.  Content  with  little, 
he  pleased  himself  with  the  company  of  his  children, 
and  with  his  few  books.  His  horoscope  for  the  human 
race  was  quite  different  from  that  which  was  announced 
from  the  pulpit.  On  this  occasion  his  eldest  daughter, 
Emily,  was  beside  him    in   the  pew,  and  drew  all   eyes 


52  QUABBIN 

in  the  vicinity,  especially  in  the  choir,  where  many 
lively  young  fellows  sat. 

The  service  ended,  John  Foster  and  his  daughter 
rose  to  go  out.  "Em'ly,"  said  he  in  a  firm  undertone, 
"  I  sh'll  never  hear  thet  old  man  agin,  with  his  gospel 
o'  hate." 

Mrs.  Haskins  kept  her  keen  eyes  on  the  pair.  The 
daughter's  beauty  was  striking,  but  the  ideas  of  old 
people  are  fixed  upon  race,  stock,  family;  and  nothing 
good,  in  her  opinion,  could  be  inherited  by  the  girl  from 
an  ungodly,  freethinking  father. 

George,  also,  was  looking ;  it  had  never  occurred  to 
him  that  the  school-girl  he  had  so  often  seen,  with  clear 
blue  eyes  and  glossy  braids  of  auburn  hair,  would  blos- 
som into  beauty  like  that.  This  may  have  been  the 
substance  of  his  thought,  but  not  his  way  of  expressing 
it.     He  much  preferred  to  look,  and  say  nothing. 

The  chances  to  court  a  girl  in  Ouabbin  were  few, 
unless  the  parties  were  intimate  ;  it  was  only  at  a  sing- 
ing-school or  a  sleigh-ride  that  there  was  an  oppor- 
tunity to  break  the  ice.  In  approaching  such  a  matter 
the  youths  went  as 'soft -footed  as  if  shod  with  Indian 
moccasins.  Now,  George  knew  that  a  sleigh-ride  was 
in  prospect,  and  he  thought  that  Emily  would  suit  him 
for  a  partner,  at  least  on  that  occasion.  How  he 
managed  to  communicate  with  her  was  not  known,  and 
it  was  certain  he  would  never  tell.  But  it  was  done 
with  due  secrecy,  and  without  breach  of  the  proprieties 
recognized  in  Ouabbin  ;  and  the  father's  consent  was 
duly  given. 

One  may  be  sure,  however,  that  Mrs.  Haskins  had 
not  been  consulted.  George  went  about  in  his  usual 
way,    silently    making    preparations,    his    wily    brown 


PATIENT  EMILY  53 

eyes  downcast,  so  as  to  reveal  nothing  of  his  anticipa- 
tions to  his  mother. 

The  appointed  day  came,  and  the  party  began  to 
assemble  in  the  broad  space  between  the  meeting-house 
and  the  new  tavern.  As  the  sleighs  had  no  "  tops,"  or 
hoods,  the  couples  were  in  full  view,  and  there  was  no 
longer  any  mystery  about  preferences.  Every"  youth 
had  the  most  stunning  "team"  he  could  obtain;  the 
horses  were  groomed  to  a  nicety,  and  sleighs  and 
harness  shone.  At  last  the  tale  was  complete,  —  some 
thirty  odd, —  and  the  chosen  leader  took  the  road,  all 
following  in  single  file.  There  was  snow  enough,  well- 
trodden,  and  not  "hubbly."  The  horses  felt  the  keen, 
bracing  air,  and,  tossing  their  heads,  went  on  with 
emulous  strides,  excited  by  the  movements  of  so  many 
competitors.  At  the  sound  of  the  merry  sleigh-bells  all 
the  villagers  rushed  to  their  windows. 

"My!  ef  thet  ain't  Marthy  Laurence  'long  'o  Hi 
Smith  !  "  —  "  An'  there's  Jerush  Stebbins  'ith  lame  Joe 
Wheeler!"  —  "Lands  sakes !  what  on  airth's  she 
wearin'  that  red  feather  fer  t  "  —  "  But  dii  yeou  see  that 
yaller  sleigh,  an'  thet  harness  all  silver.-^"  —  "George 
Haskins  an'  Em'ly  Foster,  ez  trew's  Lm  alive  !  Wonder 
what  his  mother'll  say  naow  !  "  —  "  She  don't  mean  ter 
hev  no  young  missis  a  comin'  inter  her  haouse,  not  ef 
she  knows  it,  she  don't  ;  not  'z  long  ez  sJic  lives  !  " 

So,  with  "  Du  tell!"  and  "You  don't  say  so!"  and 
many  more  ejaculations,  and  with  friendly  nods  and 
waving  handkerchiefs,  the  jK'ople  saw  the  long  proces- 
sion glide  through  the  village. 

The  old-fashioned  sleigh-bells  were  hollow  globes  of 
copper,  each  with  a  loose  piece  of  metal  inside,  arranged 
like  a  necklace  upon  a  leather  strap.      They  had  a  deep 


54     '  QUABBIN 

sonority,  and  were  chosen  so  as  to  give  an  approach 
to  harmony  ;  and  in  sleighing-time  every  farmer  was 
recognized  from  afar  by  a  well-known  tone.  Horses 
were  proud  of  them,  and  showed  it  by  the  way  in  which 
they  carried  their  heads.  No  such  pageant  was  exhib- 
ited in  Ouabbin  as  the  annual  sleigh-ride,  —  the  smart 
turnouts,  the  young  men  with  fur  caps  and  white  wool- 
len comforters,  the  girls  in  bright  hoods  and  mufflers, 
the  horses  generally  keeping  step,  and  the  multitude  of 
bells  making  a  merry  din.  The  "  pairing  off  "  for  such 
an  occasion  was  generally  thought  prophetic.  Every  one 
looked  on  with  pleasure,  excepting  youths  who  could 
not  afford  the  expense  of  such  an  outing,  and  damsels 
who  had  not  been  invited.  Something  of  heartache 
lingers  behind  joy,  as  shadows  lurk  behind  light. 

Emily  Foster,  without  a  mother,  and  with  a  kind  but 
unprosperoLis  father,  was  for  this  day  demurely,  coyly 
content,  and  willing  to  be  altogether  happy.  Her  escort 
gave  his  attention  at  first  to  his  horse,  and  both  were 
absorbed  in  the  exhilarating  course  over  the  long 
winding  road.  But  propinquity  has  to  be  reckoned 
with.  Two  kindly  disposed  young  people,  warmly 
clad,  packed  closely  in  a  well-cushioned  sleigh,  and 
protected  by  a  buffalo-robe,  inevitably  become  cosey  ; 
then,  with  the  sense  of  contact,  tender,  trustful,  talka- 
tive ;  and  then,  perhaps,  silent ;  for  feeling  may  be 
beyond  speech.  It  is  only  among  the  gifted  beings 
created  by  the  novelist  that  the  "subjective"  comes 
into  play.  George  and  Emily  would  not  have  attempted 
to  express  their  "feelin's"  except  in  simple  words. 
Nor,  doubtless,  did  it  occur  to  them  to  admire  the  green 
pines  with  white  background,  the  few  russet  leaves 
shivering  upon  the  oaks,  the  stretch  of  snow-covered 


PATIENT  EMILY  55 

fields,  or  the  softly  rounded  hilltops.  Scenery  with  its 
phrases,  its  sentiment,  and  associations,  had  not  been 
imported.  Nobody  in  Quabbin  had  heard  of  such  a 
thing.  A  flower  was  ''pooty,"  a  tree  might  be  "  hahn- 
some,"  but  what  was  a  ''  landscape  "  t 

For  a  while  George's  talk  turned  upon  the  past 
harvest,  —  the  yield  of  corn  and  rye,  and  of  potatoes, 
pumpkins,  and  apples.  After  a  long  pause  he  said, 
"  Ther*  ain't  nothin'  much  livelier  than  a  sleigh-ride  on 
a  fine  day,  when  ther's  good  comp'ny  an'  good  teams." 

*' An'  the  bells  ringin'  all  together,"  said  his  partner, 
"sound  sunthin  like  Miss  Grant's  planner." 

*'  But  it's  the  comp'ny  Em'ly  ;  I  go  aout  in  a  sleigh 
'baout  every  day,  but,  when  I'm  alone,  I  don't  mind 
nothin'  'baout  the  bells.  But  naow  "  —  and  without 
finishing  the  sentence  he  settled  a  little  nearer,  looked 
at  the  girl  over  his  shoulder,  and  said,  *'  Enjoyin'  yer- 
self,  Em'ly  t " 

There  was  a  faint  affirmative  that  sounded  like  a 
blissful  sigh. 

"  Hope  'tain't  the  las'  time  ! "  said  George  with 
significant  emphasis. 

"I  sh'll  alius  be  pleased  to  go  'ith  yer  —  ef  my 
father  an'  yeour  mother  don't  object." 

His  mother!  The  word  struck  him  like  a  dagger, 
and  he  relapsed  into  silence.  Apparently  a  similar 
thought  possessed  the  girl.  How  was  she  to  win  that 
woman's  good  graces.''  Both  were  lost  in  conjectures, 
but  George  easily  persuaded  himself  there  would  be 
time  enough  to  bring  things  around.  Only  he  was 
beginning  to  dread  the  meeting  that  must  take  place 
ne.xt  morning. 

The   route   of  a  dozen   miles  was   soon  finished,  and 


56  QUABBLV 

the  party  alighted  at  a  tavern,  where  an  entertainment 
had  been  made  ready.  Among  thirty  young  men  there 
is  sure  to  be  some  bumpkin,  and  when  it  came  the  turn 
of  George  and  Emily  at  the  door,  they  saw  Lije  Bates 
holding  a  pillow-beer  of  oats  he  had  brought  for  his 
horse,  and  facing  the  jeering  hostlers.  The  provident 
youth  was  endeavoring  to  mask  his  position. 

"Wa\,  you  see,  I  don't  kaer  'bout  one-and-six,  or  two 
shillin'  for  hoss-feed ;  that  ain't  it;  but  th'  ol'  man  (his 
father)  tol'  me  I'd  better  bring  'em,  'cause  bosses,  some- 
times away  f'm  hum  git  pesky  mean  fodder,  an'  're  ap 
ter  git  distemper,  er  broken  wind,  er  sunthin'."  De- 
risive laughter  followed  him  into  the  house. 

At  the  table  were  steaks  and  broiled  chickens,  with 
pumpkin-pies  and  mince-pies  to  follow;  but  \.h.Q pike  de 
resistance^  was  a  huge  dish  of  stewed  oysters.  In  the 
days  before  railroads,  to  get  oysters  in  prime  condition 
at  such  a  distance  from  the  sea  was  not  easy.  From 
its  rarity  the  flavor  was  wonderful,  transcendent.  The 
oysters  were  cooked  to  a  nicety,  as  shown  by  their 
daintily  curled  ruffles,  and  were  seasoned  and  buttered 
with  judgment.  There  was  abundance  for  all.  And 
how  those  healthy  young  people  ate !  Never  afterward 
would  anything  taste  so  exquisite. 

The  tables  were  cleared.  A  self-taught  fiddler  struck 
up  some  dancing-tunes  with  spirit,  and  a  good  number 
of  the  merrymakers  went  through  cotillons  and  contra- 
dances ;  not  the  majority,  however,  for  most  of  the 
girls  were  under  maternal  injunction;  and  not  George 
and  Emily,  for  he  did  not  wish  to  offend  his  mother 
unnecessarily. 

Some  fumes  of  principe  cigars  came  from  the  bar- 
room, and  there  were  suspicions  of  port-wine  sangarees 


PATIENT  EMILY  57 

(wine,  hot  water,  sugar,  and  spice),  but   these  were   in 
moderation,  and  confined  to  a  few. 

The  sun  had  gone  down,  and  the  moon  was  beginning 
to  diffuse  its  mystical  light.  The  teams  were  brought 
out,  and  the  jolly  procession  re-formed,  to  return  home 
by  another  route.  The  sleigh-bells  rang  loud  and 
clear  in  the  still  air.  It  was  a  night  which  conveyed 
an  impression  of  the  illimitable. 

"God  makes  sech  nights,  so  white  an'  still, 
Fer's  you  can  look  or  listen  ; 
Moonlight  an'  snow  on  field  an'  hill, 
All  silence,  an'  all  glisten." 

The  stanza  had  not  been  written,  but  the  moon  was 
shining  on  New  England  snow-hills,  and  on  lovers,  as 
it  will  for  ages  to  come. 

Like  Zekle,  George  felt  his  veins  "all  crinkly,  like 
curled  maple;  "  but  the  pretty  scene  of  Lowell's  idyl  did 
not  follow.  He  was  thinking  of  his  mother.  But  he 
pressed  closely  his  plump  partner,  and  she  leaned  upon 
his  stalwart  shoulder.  ]\Icre  nothings  were  spoken,  in 
which  tone  and  suggestion  were  eloquent.  A  wxll-rea- 
soned  dialogue  from  a  novel  would  have  been  absurd. 
From  the  weighty  hints  it  was  understood  that  George 
was  to  come  next  Sunday  evening,  "arter  folks  was 
gone  to  prayer-meetin'."  He  did  not  commit  himself 
further;  he  knew  his  mother. 

Emily  was  safely  landed  at  home  before  midnight, 
and  found  her  father  waiting  for  her.  Half  an  hour 
later  George  reached  home,  and  after  putting  up  his 
horse,  went  into  the  house,  where  he  found  a  good  fire; 
but  his  mother  had  gone  to  bed. 

At  breakfast  there  was  a  passably  hostile  interchange 


58  QUAE  BIN 

of  views,  after  the  manner  of  Indian  warfare  that  is 
carried  on  from  behind  trunks  of  trees.  The  wily 
brown  eves  and  the  steady  gray  eyes  glanced  at  each 
other  across  the  table,  then  turned  aside,  or  looked 
down  ;  then  blazed  again  with  sudden  eloquence.  The 
words  of  mother  and  son  were  few,  but  their  tone  was 
regretful  rather  than  ill-natured. 

"Might  a'  let  yeour  mother  a'  known." 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  to  take  a  gal  to  a  sleigh-ride/* 

"Folks  don't  think  so." 

"Folks  kin  mind  their  business." 

"But  fer  yeou  to  go  a-courtin'  John  Foster's  darter  's 
viy  business.     He  don't  b'lieve  in  nothin'." 

"I  ain't  a-courtin'  Jiiiii'' 

"The  Scripter  says  He  will  visit  the  iniquity  of  the 
fathers  upon  the  children." 

"I  ain't  argyin'  Scripter." 

"  Wal,  yeou  might  hev  regard  fer  yeour  mother's 
feelin's." 

"So  I  hev." 

"We  sh'U  see." 

It  was  a  mere  skirmish,  for  the  combatants  did  not 
come  to  close  quarters ;  but  each  had  found  out  where 
the  other  stood. 

Some  years  passed,  and  all  that  was  noticeable  in  the 
conduct  of  George  Haskins  was  that  he  neglected  the 
Sunday  evening  prayer-meetings  lamentably.  What 
further  interviews  he  had  with  his  mother,  who  can 
say  }  People  of  strong  will  do  not  talk  much  :  a  v/ord 
and  a  look  are  enough.  Perhaps  there  was  needed 
only  a  little  more  openness  and  courage  on  his  part  ; 
perhaps,  knowing  her  convictions,  and  her  desire  to 
remain  mistress  in  the  house,  the  dutiful  son  or  faint- 
hearted lover  forbore  to  press  her. 


PATIENT  EMILY  59 

She  was  growing  old,  four-score  at  least  ;  her  son 
was  nearing  forty,  and  Emily  was  no  longer  as  fresh  as 
on  the  day  of  the  sleigh-ride.  ''  Hope  deferred  maketh 
the  heart  sick." 

John  Foster,  who  had  long  been  feeble,  passed  away. 
He  had  kept  his  word,  and  had  gone  no  more  to  hear 
about  election  and  reprobation  ;  but  he  had  taken  rather 
kindly  to  the  new  minister,  although  he  made  no  move 
toward  uniting  with  the  church.  He  died  as  he  had 
lived,  a  gentle  being,  without  a  creed,  but  fully  per- 
suaded of  the  mercy  of  God.  Mrs.  Haskins  evidently 
wished  to  talk  about  his  death,  but  her  son  always 
eluded  her. 

And  so  time  went  on.  The  house  was  a  miracle  of 
neatness.  The  dairy  was  cool  and  sweet  ;  the  cheeses 
were  golden  like  harvest-moons.  In  all  that  concerned 
his  comfort  George  had  nothing  to  ask  for.  But  was 
his  conscience  at  ease  } 

Poor  Emily  Foster!  After  the  death  of  her  father 
she  had  the  care  of  a  brother  and  sister.  All  the  girls 
of  her  age  were  married,  or  had  accepted,  with  such 
resignation  as  was  possible,  the  lot  of  old  maids.  She 
was  cheerful  in  her  melancholy  way, —  a  late  flowering 
but  still  lovely  rose.  Why  had  not  her  lover  courage.'* 
Or  had  he  done  his  utmost  in  vain  t 

Time  went  on.  George's  Sunday  evening  visits  were 
regularly  made,  but  the  courtship  had  become  an  old 
story  in  the  village,  and  people  ceased  to  talk  about 
it.  One  evening  Emily  plucked  up  courage  to  say 
something  decisive,  even  if  it  should  bring  about  a 
rupture.  The  great  struggle  was  painfully  visible  in 
her  face. 

"George,"    she  said,  while  her   eyes   brimmed   witli 


6o  QUAE  BIN 

tears,  ''yeou  can't  say  I  hain't  ben  patient  all  these 
years.  I've  gin  up  my  youth  an'  every  futur'  hope  fer 
yeour  love.  Seems  ter  me  yeou  hain't  hed  the  grit  ter 
meet  yeour  mother  ez  yeou  orter.  The  Scriptur'  says 
a  man  sh'll  leave  his  father  an'  his  mother,  an'  cleave 
unter  his  wife.     Did  yeou  ever  repeat  tu  her  that  verse }  " 

"No, —  not  'xackly." 

"  Hev  yeou  ever  asked  her  what  she  hed  ag'in  me  ? 
I  know  she  didn't  like  my  father,  but  he  ain't  in  her 
way  any  more." 

"No  ;  she  wouldn't  never  say.     She  was  alius  offish." 

"  Wal,  I've  a'most  come  ter  the  conclewsion  that  I'd 
ruther  be  alone,  an'  continner  alone,  than  ter  go  on  this 
way,  neither  merried  ner  single." 

"Don't  talk  so,  Em'ly ;  I'll  try  ag'in.  But  mother 
ain't  well,  an'  I  hate  to  cross  her.  It'll  all  come  aout 
right." 

"  Du  yeou  mean  't  yeou  think  she  ain't  goin'  ter  live  } 
Ef  that's  what  yeou  mean  by  its  comin'  aout  right,  it 
ain't  Christian.  Much  ez  I  love  yer,  I  don't  wanter  put 
my  happiness  on  the  chance  of  any  woman's  dyin'  ;  I'd 
ruther  the  thing  was  ended  right  here." 

"  No  ;  but,  Em'ly,  jest  yeou  wait.  I'll  'gree  ter  bring 
ye  mother's  consent,  or  I  won't  ask  ye  to  merry  me." 

"  Wal,  on  that  promise  I'll  wait  awhile;  though  I'm 
clear  wore  aout  'ith  hopin'  an'  dreadin'." 

A  few  weeks  later  some  children  were  picking 
berries  on  Great  Ouabbin,  when  suddenly  they  heard 
two  strokes  from  the  meeting-house  bell.  One  stroke 
denoted  the  death  of  a  man,  two  of  a  woman,  and  three 
of  a  child.  The  bell  then  began  the  strokes  for  the 
age,  and  the  children  counted.  It  seemed  they  would 
never    end.       Sixty    was    passed,    then    seventy,    then 


PATIENT  EMILY  6 1 

eighty  ;  then  one,  two,  three,  four,  five  ;  and  there  was 
silence.     Eighty-five. 

When  the  children  got  home,  a  boy  said,  "  It  must  be 
that  the  bell  was  toUin'  fer  the  death  of  Mrs.  Haskins." 

"No,"  said  Aunt  Keziah ;  "the  bell  was  ringin'  fer 
Em'ly  Foster's  weddin'." 

George  had  kept  his  word.  He  and  his  Emily  were 
beside  his  mother's  dying-bed,  and  they  had  received 
her  blessing. 

This  happened  long  ago.  The  patient  couple  are  no 
more,  and  their  children  live  under  the  shadow  of  the 
ancestral  elms. 


62  QUABDhY 


CHAPTER  VIII 

JUDAISTIC    LEANINGS 

It  is  a  singular  and  perhaps  unexplained  fact  in  the 
history  of  Christianity,  that,  so  long  after  the  lapse  of 
the  "old  dispensation,"  there  should  have  re-appeared 
among  the  Puritans  such  a  marked  preference  for  the 
Old  Testament  Scriptures  and  names,  and  such  a  sym- 
pathy with  the  Mosaic  jurisprudence  and  traditions. 
During  the  seventeenth  century  the  minds  of  the  Puri- 
tans, and  of  most  British  dissenters,  seem  to  have 
been  less  impressed  by  the  divinely  simple  Gospel 
narratives  than  by  the  dealings  of  God  with  the  patri- 
archs,—  by  the  terrible  splendors  of  Sinai,  the  transla- 
tion of  Enoch,  the  audible  call  of  Samuel,  and  Elijah's 
chariot  of  fire.  Their  stern  natures  sympathized  with 
the  grandeur  and  awe  with  which  the  prophets  and 
psalmists  enveloped  His  throne,  and  with  the  unchange- 
able rigidity  attributed  to  His  moral  government. 

In  public  worship  at  Quabbin  the  Old  Testament 
was  drawn  upon  for  texts  of  sermons,  and  for  reading 
lessons,  far  oftcncr  than  the  New.  Pravers  were  elab- 
oratcly  inlaid  with  the  poetical  phrases  of  David,  some 
of  which  resembled  the  grovelling  addresses  of  slaves 
to  Eastern  despots ;  and  the  phrases  were  so  constantly 
repeated  that  every  hearer  knew  their  sequence,  as  he 
knew  the  route  to  his  own  home.     There  came  a  time 


JUDAISTIC  LEANIXGS  6l 

when  the  people  of  Ouabbin  heard  prayers  to  God 
marked  by  a  tripping  familiarity  that  would  have  been 
discourteous  to  a  county  judge.  The  unseemly  levity 
and  the  slavish  prostration  might  have  been  equally 
avoided,  if  care  had  been  taken  to  follow  the  precept 
and  example  of  Jesus  :    "  Thus  ought  ye  to  pray." 

In  discourses  and  exhortations,  references  were  con- 
stantly made  to  the  favor  shown  by  the  Creator  of  all 
men  to  "His  chosen  people."  It  is  not  to  be  supposed 
that  the  disciples  and  apostles  were  not  reverenced,  but 
there  was  far  more  heard  of  Moses,  David,  and  the 
prophets.  The  bush  that  burned  and  was  not  con- 
sumed was  as  often  in  mind  as  the  pathetic  symbol  of 
Christ's  death  and  man's  redemption.  The  sonorous 
names  of  Semitic  warriors  and  kings  were  familiar  to 
the  lips  of  the  early  ministers ;  the  syllables  of  Ze-rub- 
ba-bel  gurgled  like  water  falling  over  stones ;  Jehoiada, 
Jeroboam,  Ahasuerus,  Ahab,  Hezekiah  and  Sennacherib, 
how  well  they  were  known  !  But  Augustine,  Ambrose, 
Chrysostom,  Clement,  Ignatius,  Irenoeus,  and  Polycarp, 
were  never  mentioned  except  once  a  year,  in  the  course 
of  a  thundering  attack  upon  the  Scarlet  Woman  of  the 
Apocalypse. 

Baptismal  names  showed  a  similar  drift.  Of  course, 
a  few  old  English  names  were  rej^resented ;  but  most 
children  wore  appellations  laboriously  sought  out  from 
the  Bible;  and  they  were  often  ponderous  enough  to 
make  the  toddling  wearers  top-heavy.  The  names 
were  not  necessarily  Hebrew;  they  might  be  Greek  or 
Roman;  but  they  had  become  hallowed  by  being  im- 
bedded in  a  biblical  text.  Aquila,  Epaphras,  and  The- 
ophilus  flourished,  though  less  frequently  than  Abijah, 
Eliphaz,  and  Ichabod.      A  father  who  had  been   christ- 


64  '  QUABBIN 

ened  Moses  had  three  sons,  Moses,  Aaron,  and  Josiah. 
In  Webster's  Dictionary  there  is  a  list  of  Scripture 
names,  and,  in  running  them  over,  about  one  hundred 
and  eighty  were  found  that  were  well  knowa  in  Quabbin 
and  vicinity.  Many  were  beautiful,  but  more  were  inhar- 
monious. Ridiculous  associations  came  to  be  attached  to 
some  that  were  originally  noble.  In  hearing  the  names 
Hosea  and  Ezekiel,  one  seldom  thinks  of  the  majestic 
prophets,  but  of  "  Hosy  "  the  shrewd  and  comic  hero  of 
the  Biglow  Papers,  and  of  **  Zekle  "  of  the  Yankee  idyl. 
What  young  lady  in  modern  society  would  willingly 
own  to  the  name  of  Jemima,  Jerusha,  or  Tabitha }  There 
were  twin  sisters  not  many  miles  from  Quabbin  named 
Tryphena  and  Tryphosa.  One  bright-eyed  matron  was 
named  Tirzah;  another,  fair  and  delicate,  had  been 
called  Zeruiah.  What  angelic  patience  must  have  been 
required  to  bear  such  burdens  for  life  ! 

In  common  speech  all  names  were  clipped  and  vul- 
garized ;  and  among  school-boys  and  young  men  the 
actual  designations  were  "Eph,"  ''Bije,"  "Ez,"  ''Hi," 
**Rast,"  *'Josh,"  "Lije,"  etc.  Poets  must  find  it  hard 
to  fit  these  docked  and  ill-used  names  into  pastoral 
verse;  and  even  when  the  line  is  made,  the  reader  is 
apt  to  be  disgusted  by  some  unromantic  association. 
Lowell's  ballad  of  ''The  Courtin'  "  is  almost  perfect  in 
beauty ;  and  yet,  in  some  moods,  at  the  mention  of 
"Zekle"  and  "Huldy  "  a  sense  of  vulgar  comedy  comes 
in  to  overbear  the  poetic  feeling. 

Oddly  enough,  there  was  never  a  man  or  boy  named 
Paul  in  Quabbin,  or  in  the  region.  Was  there  some 
half-conscious  sympathy  with  the  Judaistic  distrust  and 
dislike  of  the  great  apostle  to  the  artistic  and  lettered 
world } 


JUDAJSriC  LEANINGS  65 

The  manner  of  keeping  Sunday  was  Juclaistic;  and 
its  sacredness  was  defended  as  by  the  lightnings  of 
Sinai;  it  being  disingenuously  claimed  that  the  substi- 
tution of  Sunday  for  the  Jewish  Sabbath  was  made  by 
Divine  command.  Of  the  blessedness  of  reservinof  in 
every  week  a  day  of  rest  for  body  and  mind,  and  of  the 
propriety  and  duty  of  maintaining  the  beautiful  Chris- 
tian custom  of  making  that  day  a  glad  and  solemn  re- 
ligious festival,  no  reflecting  man  can  have  any  doubt. 
But  when  it  comes  to  the  question  of  regarding  the 
gathering  of  a  few  sticks  on  that  day  as  a  crime  worthy 
of  death,  any  man  of  common-sense  might  well  pause. 

Some  few  persons  —  not  more  than  two  or  three  fam- 
ilies—  adhered  to  the  literal  meaning  of  the  verse  in 
Genesis  (mistranslated  in  King  James's  version),  ''The 
evening  and  the  morning  were  the  first  day."  In  the 
revised  version  it  reads,  ''And  there  was  evening,  and 
there  was  morning,  one  day."  Such  persons  began 
their  preparations  in  the  afternoon  of  Saturday,  and 
their  devotions  at  sundown.  The  children  regarded 
this  as  an  encroachment  on  prescriptive  rights,  as  the 
"Sahberday"  stretched  quite  beyond  twenty-four  hours. 
When  thev  asked  on  Sundav  at  what  hour  they  mii-ht 
go  out  to  play,  the  answer  was,  "When  you  can  see 
three  stars." 

The  original  purpose  of  encompassing  the  first  day 
of  the  week  with  the  awful  denunciations  that  once 
guarded  the  seventh  is  obvious.  It  was  an  indispensa- 
ble part  of  the  plan  for  keeping  the  control  of  the  peo- 
ple in  the  hands  of  the  ministers.  With  this  end  in 
view,  the  express  words  and  the  bold  example  of  Ilim 
who  was  Lord  of  the  Sabbath  were  silently  disregarded, 
or  ingeniously  glossed  over.     For  a  specimen  of  clever 


66  QUAE  BIN 

juggling  with  the  "niicldle  term"  of  an  implied  syllo- 
gism, the  reader  is  referred  to  the  Shorter  Catechism, 
in  the  part  relating  to  the  Fourth  Commandment.  If  a 
*'  worldly  "  logician  should  venture  upon  such  a  falsifi- 
cation, what  would  not  be  said  of  him  ? 

A  few  words  upon  the  daily  life  and  occupation  of  an 
old  gentleman  who  lived  in  Quabbin  sixty  years  ago 
will  give  a  better  idea  of  the  prevailing  tone  of  thought 
than  any  description.  He  became  incapable  of  physical 
labor  in  middle  life,  and  devoted  himself  for  more  than 
thirty  years  thereafter  to  reading  and  study.  As  his 
collection  of  books  was  scanty  and  little  varied,  and  as 
he  knew  his  Bible  by  heart,  the  time  often  hung  heavy 
on  his  bands,  and  he  took  to  writing.  Had  he  thought 
to  have  wTitten  his  memoirs,  the  book  would  have  been 
invaluable.  He  was  five  years  old  when  the  battle  of 
Bunker's  Hill  was  fought,  and  remembered  the  hurried 
ride  of  the  farmer,  who,  in  shirt-sleeves  and  without  a 
saddle,  came  to  rouse  the  neighborhood  (Woodstock, 
Conn.)  and  call  for  volunteers  to  go  on  with  General 
Putnam  (''Old  Put")  to  fight  the  British  at  Boston. 
Of  course  he  remembered  the  events  of  the  Revolu- 
tionary war,  the  formation  of  the  Constitution,  and  the 
war  of  1812.  He  must  have  had,  also,  a  store  of  tradi- 
tions of  the  settlement  of  Quabbin,  whither  he  came  in 
1793.  But,  instead  of  setting  down  these  recollections, 
he  wrote  scrntons  !  They  were  generally  upon  Hebrew 
themes,  and  were  written  merely  as  literary  exercises, 
for  he  never  thought  of  preaching.  Just  as  if  the  air 
were  not  full  of  them  !  Then  he  wrote  a  long  rhymed 
essay  upon  Melchisedek  !  in  which  he  undertook  to 
prove,  that  as  this  personage  was  styled  a  "priest  of  the 
Most  High  God,"  and  was  said  to  be  "without  begins- 


JUDAISTIC  LEAXIXGS.  67 

ning  of  days  or  end  of  time,"  he  could  have  been  no 
other  than  the  second  person  of  the  Trinity,  appearing 
in  the  flesh  on  earth  in  that  ancient  time,  as  he  did  long 
after  in  Judea.  This  old  gentleman  was  the  only  liter- 
ary layman  in  town,  and  such  was  the  work  to  which 
he  devoted  many  years  of  his  life  !  He  was  a  keen  and 
quick-witted  man,  and  in  a  literary  atmosphere  might 
have  accomplished  something.  Later  he  enlisted  in  the 
anti-slavery  crusade,  and  his  energy  found  a  practical 
field  for  exercise. 

The  gloom  which  characterized  the  life  of  the  Puri- 
tans and  over-shadowed  some  generations  of  their 
descendants,  was  largely  due  to  the  prominence  of  Old 
Testament  ideas,  to  the  awful  traits  attributed  by 
Hebrew  writers  to  Jehovah,  to  the  solemnity  of  their 
poetry,  to  the  ominous  "burdens"  of  their  prophecy, 
and  to  their  materialistic  philosophy,  ending  in  rayless 
night.  While  under  the  influence  of  such  ideas  and 
feelings,  one  might  think  Christ  had  died  in  vain.  In 
time  the  clear  effulgence  of  Christianity  dispersed  these 
shadows. 

In  this  chapter  have  been  noticed  only  such  Judaistic 
tendencies  as  survived  in  Ouabbin  ;  but  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  two  colonies  on  the  Bay,  the  opinions  and 
acts  of  the  rulers  in  regard  to  liberty  and  equality,  antl 
religious  toleration,  as  well  as  in  regard  to  law,  consid- 
'ered  as  the  basis  of  society,  were  broadly  Jewish  and 
theocratic. 


68  QUABBIA 


CHAPTER    IX 

DRESS,    MANNERS,    AND    SPEECH 

Many  of  the  early  settlers  of  Quabbin  were  descend- 
ants of  the  Pilgrims,  and  caftie  from  the  Old  Colony  of 
Plymouth.  In  the  time  of  its  first  minister  there  were 
heard  in  the  outlying  districts,  and  quite  commonly  in 
the  village,  the  tones  and  inflections  used  long  before  by 
Governor  Brewster  and  Captain  Miles  Standish.  The 
quality  of  voice,  the  vowel  sounds,  the  elisions  and 
the  accent,  now  characterized  as  Yankee,  were  heard, 
beyond  doubt,  though  with  some  variations,  in  the 
preaching  of  Bunyan,  the  talk  of  Cromwell's  men,  and 
the  debates  of  the  Long  Parliament.  Of  course,  this 
statement  is  conjectural,  but  the  known  facts  leave 
little  doubt  as  to  its  correctness.  It  is  probable,  how- 
ever, that  during  an  age  of  more  ardent  faith  and  deeper 
emotion  there  was  a  prevalent  tone  of  voice  which  was 
easily  turned  to  ridicule --as  is  seen  in  Hudibras  — 
and  which  in  more  worldly  times  began  to  disappear. 

The  old  speech  has  been  imitated  by  many  writers, 
as  in  Lowell's  **  Biglow  Papers,"  ^  in  Mrs.  Stowe's  '*  Old 
Town  Folks,"  in  passages  of  the  "Autocrat  of  the 
Breakfast  Tal)le,"  and  in  stories  bv  Trowbridge,  by 
Rose  Terry  Cooke,  and    Mary   E.   Wilkins.     Undoubt- 

1  In  the  introduction  to  the  second  series  of  tlie  "  Biglow  Papers"  is  the  most 
complete  treatise  extant  upon  tiiis  subject. 


DRESS,  MANNERS,  AND   SPEECH  69 

edly  there  have  been,  and  still  are,  local  differences  in 
the  dialect,  for  in  none  of  the  books  above  cited  is  there 
a  resemblance  /;/  all  respects  to  the  speech  once  heard 
in  Ouabbin.  In  most  of  the  specimens  which  the  world 
justly  admires  there  has  been  imported  something 
modern,  which  makes  an  impression  like  that  of  a 
knowing  city  youth  masquerading  in  a  farmer's  frock. 
Such  is  the  feeling  of  a  native  of  Ouabbin  who  recalls 
the  measured,  kindly,  and  habitually  reverent  tone  and 
phrase  used  by  the  people  he  knew.  It  w^as  only  among 
the  worldly  or  the  openly  wicked  that  one  would  have 
observed  the  biting  shrewdness,  or  the  bantering  with 
texts  of  Scripture  and  sacred  things,  which  have  been 
attributed  to  the  representative  Yankee.  Such  an 
expression  as 

"  An'  you'll  hev  to  git  up  airly 
Ef  you  want  to  take  in  God  " 

would  never  have  been  used  by  a  Yankee  in  Ouabbin, 
except  among  the  irreligious  and  profane.  Yet  the 
concluding  stanzas  of  the  ballad  just  referred  to  show 
that  Hosea  was  animated  by  a  noble  and  God-fearing 
spirit.  It  \vould  not  have  helped  the  matter  —  in 
Quabbin  —  that  St.  Augustine,  Fuller,  and  all  the 
divines  in  the  world,  had  taken  similar  liberties  with 
the  Creator.  Those  people  could  not  have  spoken  so  ; 
for  the  Great  Name  was  never  mentioned  but  with  awe. 
All  this  may  have  been  different  on  the  seaboard. 
And  it  must  be  admitted  that  those  godly  and  slow- 
speaking  men,  whose  ways  and  speech  are  a  part  of  the 
life  of  all  Ouabbin's  sons,  would  not  have  been  half  as 
amusing  as  the  keen  fellows  who  have  figured  in  dialect 
story  and  poem. 


70  QUABBIN 

An  abiding  sense  of  the  reality  of  spiritual  things, 
and  of  the  nearness  of  the  judgment-day,  tempered 
every  utterance.  Ejaculations  and  passionate  emphasis 
had  no  place  ;  the  movement  of  speech  was  partly  like 
a  ploughman's  measured  tread,  and  partly  like  the  flow 
of  a  gently  murmuring  brook.  Their  archaisms  were 
as  "  nateral  "  as  buttercups  to  a  meadow. 

A  farmer,  during  the  Millerite  craze,  about  1840,  said 
to  the  village  blacksmith,  in  a  simple,  level  tone  that 
no  tvpes  can  express,  "Why,  Cousin  Rozzell,"  mean- 
ing Roswell,  ''  they  du  say  the  world  is  nigh  about  to 
come  'pon  an  eend."  —  "Wal,"  replied  the  blacksmith, 
**  I  guess  th'  airth,  an'  the  housen  tu,  'II  last  out  your 
time  an'  mine."  What  was  the  notion  of  the  end  of 
temporal  things,  and  of  the  nature  of  the  unseen  world, 
that  lay  in  the  mind  of  that  man  in  the  blue  frock.? 

Familiar  allusions  to  the  powers  of  nature  were 
regarded  as  sinful.  There  had  been  a  tornado  that 
had  demolished  houses,  and  cut  a  swath  through  a 
forest  of  stalwart  trees  in  the  Blue  Meadow  district, 
a  few  miles  west ;  and  one  of  the  farmers,  whose  store 
of  rye  had  been  scattered,  coming  to  the  village  shortly 

after,  said,  *' ef  I  don't  think  there's  a  fresh 

hand  got  a  hold  of  the  bellers  !  "  People  laughed,  but,  on 
reflection,  the  speech  was  considered  as  blasphemous. 
The  comparison  to  a  pair  of  bellows  was  breezy,  but 
the  covert  intimation  touching  the  power  of  the  breath 
of  the  Almighty  was  deplorable. 

If  names  of  towns  in  Massachusetts  furnish  any  deci- 
sive indication,  there  must  have  been  settlers  in  the 
colony  from  every  part  of  Great  Britain.  It  is  known 
that  in  a  great  many  instances  companies  of  immigrants 
bestowed  the  names  of  their  old  homes  upon  the  new 


DJ^ESS,  MANNERS,  AND   SPEECH  71 

towns  rising  in  the  wilderness  ;  and,  if  this  were  not 
always  the  case,  there  are  other  reasons  for  believing 
that  there  was  a  general  representation  of  the  mother 
country  in  the  colony.  The  early  native  population 
was  the  result  of  a  fusion  of  the  British  people  from 
many  districts.  Peculiarities  from  some  of  the  rural 
counties  of  England,  and,  in  less  measure  from  Scot- 
land and  Ireland,  may  be  detected  in  the  old  colloquial 
speech,  but  one  never  hears  from  a  native  New  Eng- 
lander  anything  resembling  the  pronounced  or  obtrusive 
dialects,  as  of  Yorkshire,  Lancashire,  or  Somerset;  still 
less  the  Londoner's  odious  omission  or  misplacement  of 
// ;  although  some  Yankees  drop  the  final  g^  as  do  the 
ill-taught  upper-class  English  people.  Somerset  is  rep- 
resented by  the  Yankee's  double  negative,  as  ''  I  hain't 
got  no  dog."  The  Yankee's  tone  is  more  like  that 
of  Yorkshire.  It  is  doubtful  if  there  is  any  district 
in  England  where  one  would  hear  a  connected  sentence 
wholly  in  the  dialect  or  tone  of  Quabbin.  The  nearest 
approach  to  it,  in  the  opinion  of  the  writer,  was  in  the 
talk  of  a  tram-car  driver  and  some  hostlers  at  Moreton 
near  Oxford,  upon  a  badly-fitting  collar  that  was  galling 
one  of  the  horses.  There  was,  moreover,  a  tone  of  con- 
sideration quite  unusual  among  stablemen  ;  a  decent 
farmer  in  Quabbin  would  have  spoken  in  much  the 
same  way. 

The  various  EnHish  dialects  brou2:ht  to2fether  in  the 
colony  remained  distinct,  probably,  for  one  or  two  gen- 
erations ;  but,  after  a  time,  attrition,  usage,  and  svmpa- 
thetic  imitation,  produced  a  new  composite,  which  now 
appears  like  an  original,  albeit  with  slight  local  pecu- 
liarities. 

The  nasal  tone  in  New  l^ngland,  it  is  said,  was  caused 


72  QUAE  BIN 

by  the  severe  climate  and  the  prevalent  catarrh  ;  but 
those  wore  not  the  sole  causes.  Catarrh  debases 
speech,  both  in  quality  of  tone  and  in  distinctness  of 
articulation  ;  but  the  disease  is  more  prevalent  now 
than  formerly,  while  the  general  speech  is  probably 
less  nasal.  Australians  are  said  to  have  nasal  voices, 
and  they  are  not  afflicted  with  catarrh.  The  New  Eng- 
land drawl  and  the  nasal  tone  were  probably  derived 
originally  from  the  meeting-house  and  the  prayer-meet- 
ings ;  both  defects  became  fixed  by  habit,  and,  of  course, 
have  been  greatly  heightened  by  climatic  conditions. 

The  virtue  constantly  insisted  upon  in  the  old  times 
by  parents  and  religious  teachers  was  humility,  self- 
abnegation.  In  repeating  passages  of  Scripture,  or  of 
the  Catechism,  the  tone  was  subdued.  The  religious 
spirit  was  manifested  in  awe  and  reverence,  seldom  in 
cheerfulness,  and  never  in  exaltation  —  except  in  such 
exaltation  as  was  accompanied  with  moistened  eyes 
and  "tears  in  the  voice."  It  was  **a  dying  world"  in 
which  our  fathers  lived  ;  the  expression  of  their  ideas 
and  feelings  would  not  require  the  expansive  lungs,  nor 
heave  the  deep  chest,  of  a  vigorous  and  well-developed 
man.  The  noise,  no  less  than  the  manner,  of  a  burly 
fox-hunter  and  athlete,  would  be  abhorrent  to  one 
whose  soul  was  melted  in  penitence,  and  who  in  his 
daily  devotions  intoned  in  dragging  minor  intervals 
the  prayers  that  he  dared  not  address  to  the  Dread 
Majesty  of  Heaven  with  steady  eyes  and  manly  voice. 
There  was  a  good  deacon  in  Ouabbin  whose  words, 
when  he  prayed,  were  joined,  as  by  a  singer's  pot'ta- 
vicnto,  with  (i/i  and  rr,  and  with  indescribable  sounds, 
like  the  final  hum  of  a  nasal  ;;/  and  ;/.  The  words 
were  hyphenated,  and  each  sentence  was  a  close-linked, 


DRESS,  MANNERS,  AND   SPEECH  73 

long-drawn  chain.  Let  such  usages  of  speech  go  on 
for  generations,  and  the  infection  will  pervade  the 
community.  The  child  will  be  soothed  by  a  nasal 
lullaby,  and  will  drawl  from  the  time  he  leaves  his 
cradle.  He  will  drawl  at  his  lessons,  and  make  ca- 
tarrhal yells  in  the  playground.  As  a  lover  he  will 
drawl  to  his  mistress,  and  repeat  love's  litany  through 
the  nose.  When  his  duet  with  her  is  finished,  and  his 
snuffy  voice  extinct,  he  will  be  drawn  (slowly)  to  his 
grave,  to  drawl  no  more. 

It  appears  to  be  certain  that  the  nasal  and  drawling 
tone  is  in  a  larsre  measure  the  result  of  two  and  a  half 

o 

centuries  of  Puritan  training;  just  as  the  peculiarities 
of  language,  including  local  and  obsolete  terms,  half- 
articulated  contractions,  and  clipping  of  words,  are  the 
result  of  the  fusion  of  many  illiterate  British  dialects. 
The  bucolic  speech  is  dying  out,  for  school-teachers  are 
uprooting  it,  as  farmers  do  thistles,  but  the  tone  hangs 
on,  like  the  scent  of  musk  in  Hosea  Biglows  "draw." 

Manners  belong  equally  to  mind  and  body.  On  the 
one  hand  is  the  friendly  or  courteous  intention,  and  on 
the  other  the  spontaneous  movement,  accompanied  by 
the  look  of  kindness  or  deference. 

In  Ouabbin  it  was  the  custom  to  salute  on  the  high- 
way or  in  public  places  ;  to  pass  even  a  stranger  Vv^ith- 
out  some  recognition  would  have  been  considered  rude  ; 
but  the  graceful  bow  and  the  expressive  look  were  not 
often  at  command.  Hard-working  people  are  strong 
but  not  supple;  ease  of  movement  comes  from  lighter 
modes  of  exercise.  And  as  for  the  friendly  look,  how 
could  it  be  worn  by  a  man  whose  whole  life  was  within, 
and  whose  face  was  habitually  drawn  to  its  tour  corners  } 
So,  when  two  farmers  met,  their  greeting  might  seem 


74  QUABBIN 

to  a  stran^2^er  gruff  or  surly,  since  the  facial  muscles 
were  so  inexpressive,  while,  in  fact,  they  were  on  most 
friendly  terms.  It  was  one  of  the  reasons  which  made 
city  people  so  disliked  in  Ouabbin  that  they  never 
bowed,  or  "passed  the  time  o'  day." 

The  chief  of  the  minor  virtues,  or  rules  of  conduct, 
was  self-command.  The  faces  of  the  people  on  the 
Lord's  Day  might  have  been  cast  in  bronze.  Except  in 
the  rare  case  of  some  impulsive  brother,  whose  varying 
feelings  were  visible  from  afar,  there  was  small  change 
in  the  expression  of  a  godly  countenance  from  the  time 
it  was  set  Zionward  until  it  returned  to  encounter  the 
Sahber-day  pork  and  beans.  The  psalms,  the  Scripture 
readings,  the  prayers,  and  the  sermon  were  all  heard 
with  immovable  solemnity,  tempered,  perhaps,  with  a 
**  half  tone  "  of  mournful  penitence. 

Men  of  firm  mould  came  to  acquire  this  fixity  of 
visage  in  permanence  :  it  was  not  only  on  Sunday  and 
at  prayer-meeting,  but  at  the  store  and  the  mill,  and  in 
the  field.  In  traffic,  such  as  swapping  horses  or  cattle, 
it  was  not  without  its  advantage;  for  the  dealer  who 
does  not  show  his  thought  to  a  sharp  adversary  is  not 
taken  unaware.  It  is,  of  course,  an  irreverent  and  most 
unlikely  suggestion  ;  but  if  the  game  of  poker  had  then 
been  known,  and  one  could  conceive  the  enormity  of 
a  Puritan  playing  it,  the  impassible  countenance  of  a 
deacon  over  a  **  full  hand  "  or  ''  four  kings  "  would  have 
puzzled  and  baffled  the  most  experienced  gambler;  for 
poker  is  not  so  much  a  game  of  cards  as  of  men. 

As  before  intimated,  neiirhbors  met  each  other  sol- 
emnly,  but,  doubtless,  with  as  much  of  good  will  as  is 
felt  by  the  more  effusive  or  more  courteous  people  of 
larger  communities.     This   constraint   was   evident    in 


D/^ESS,  MANNERS,  AND   SPEECH  75 

the  intercourse  between  the  sexes.  A  steadfast  look 
and  a  pointed  word  from  a  young  man  meant  as  much 
to  an  observing  girl  as  the  most  elaborate  compliment 
from  a  city  beau.  In  such  matters,  what  girl  is  not 
observing }  The  representations  of  Yankee  courtships 
in  popular  novels  and  stories  are  almost  always  false,  if 
Ouabbin  throws  any  light  on  the  subject.  The  words 
are  really  few  and  disconnected,  each  pointing  to  sepa- 
rate vistas  of  thought,  or  indicating  separate  pulses  of 
feeling,  and  each  interpreted  by  looks,  secret  pressures, 
and  fond  breathings.  Set  down  as  they  were  spoken, 
they  would  be  as  unintelligible  to  one  not  ''to  the  man- 
ner born  "  as  an  Aztec  inscription. 

Married  couples,  whose  life-long  affection  no  native 
could  doubt,  moved  as  if  in  different  though  dependent 
orbits,  like  double  stars,  and  never  (in  public  view)  jos- 
tled into  tender  familiarity.  In  the  presence  of  the 
familv  the  head  of  the  house  spoke  of  his  wife  as 
''Alarm,"  or  "Mother,"  or  "Your  ma;"  and  to  others 
as  "  Mis'  So-and-so  ;"  and  always  in  a  tone  of  distance, 
as  if  there  were  some  dim  mystery  in  the  relationship. 
Years  might  pass,  and  the  faithful  souls  would  go  on 
with  work  and  worship,  wearing  all  unconsciously  the 
masks  which  custom  had  prescribed  ;  and  the  onlookers 
who  did  not  know  the  secret  might  think  them  cold  and 
indifferent.  Strangers  and  Kiplings  could  not  enter 
into  this.  But  if  there  were  a  sudden  accident,  as  from 
a  runaway  horse,  a  mad  bull,  or  a  falling  tree  ;  or  if  there 
were  a  dangerous  illness,  or  the  death  of  a  child,  or 
other  calamity  ;  then  would  break  out  the  long-covered 
fires  ;  —  then  the  eloquence  of  the  heart  would  be  heard 
from  tlie  stricken  father  or  the  bereaved  mother,  and 
sobs  and   tears  would  show  the  depth  and  intensity  of 


76  QUABBIN 

the  love  that  had  fused  the  family  group  into  one 
golden  ring. 

Lord  Macaulay's  well-known  sketch  of  the  Puritan, 
in  his  youthful  and  glowing  essay  on  Milton,  may  have 
been  artistically  true  for  the  Cromwellian  period,  but 
the  Puritan  of  Quabbin  (and  elsewhere)  was  less  gran- 
diose and  less  theatrical.  In  the  course  of  nearly  two 
centuries  the  ardors  of  the  church  furnace  had  abated. 
Among  men  there  was  less  strain  and  pose  in  attitude, 
less  amplitude  and  fewer  figures  in  speech.  Perhaps 
the  men  were  more  common-place,  but  certainly  the 
spiritual  temperature  was  cooler. 

It  is  probably  a  revolving  of  truisms,  but  it  ought  to 
be  clearly  understood  that  the  people  of  Quabbin,  as 
well  as  Yankees  in  general,  did  not  wear  their  hearts 
upon  their  sleeves  for  critical  daws  to  peck  at.  The 
springs  of  their  conduct,  their  beliefs  and  prejudices, 
their  humors  and  eccentricities,  their  homely  proverbs 
and  dry  witticisms,  are  rarel)'  comprehended  by  people 
who  have  not  passed  a  good  part  of  their  lives  among 
them.  The  "  Biglow  Papers,"  except  in  some  minor 
details,  is  a  complete  mirror  of  Yankee  life  and  charac- 
ter ;  much  of  its  wit  is  so  salient  that  all  the  world 
chuckled  over  it;  but  no  reader  who  was  not  "one  of 
the  family  "  ever  really  appreciated  it.  It  is  much  read 
and  quoted  in  Great  Britain  ;  but  the  people  know  noth- 
ing of  it,  —  no  more  than  Englishmen  know  of  Burns. 
The  customs,  the  names  of  common  objects,  and  the 
subsidiary  vocabulary,  to  say  nothing  of  merry  twists 
and  allusions,  together  form  an  impenetrable  barrier. 

There  had  been  changes  in  dress  since  Puritan  times, 
such  as  the  use  of  trowsers  and  braces  instead  of  knee- 
breeches  and  knit  hose,  and  the  disuse  of  broad  linen 


DJ^ESS,  MANNERS,  AND  SPEECH  7/ 

collars  and  steeple-crowned  hats  ;  but  top-coats,  cloaks, 
and  capes  defied  fashion,  and  apparently  outlasted  their 
wearers.  The  outer  garments  of  most  old  men  were 
characteristic  in  form  and  color,  and,  like  their  wives, 
were  taken  for  better  or  worse  until  death  parted 
them. 

In  some  way  there  was  a  distinguishing  mark  for  all 
the  people.  It  was  a  double-cape  coat  of  sheep's  gray, 
or  one  of  greenish  brown  with  great  horn  buttons  ;  or.. 
it  was  a  full,  wadded,  dark-blue  camlet  cloak,  with  stand- 
ing collar,  fur-lined,  and  fastened  by  a  copper  chain  and 
clasp  ;  whatdVer  it  was,  it  was  peculiar  and  recogniz- 
able. Black  was  seldom  worn,  except  by  women,  and 
by  those  in  mourning.  Garments  were  often  enough 
"sad"  in  color,  but  were  generally  indecisive,  as  if 
faded  and  weather-beaten.  It  is  perhaps  superfluous 
to  say  that  the  tailor's  art  was  seldom  conspicuous ; 
neither  symmetry  nor  wrinkles  were  of  much  conse- 
quence, provided  the  garment  was  easy  and  comfort- 
able. Before  fashion  brought  about  uniformity,  there 
were  strange  freaks  in  costume.  A  bridegroom  in 
Quabbin  once  came  to  meeting  wearing  a  blue  coat 
with  brass  buttons,  buff  waistcoat  with  gilt  buttons, 
and  wide  trowsers  (it  was  in  summer),  made  from  the 
same  material  as  the  bride's  dress, — a  rather  lustrous 
piece  of  fawn-colored  silk  ;  and  the  skirt  rustled  audibly 
against  the  trowsers  as  the  pair,  each  carrying  a  flower 
and  shod  with  kid  slippers,  walked  up  the  aisle. 

The  vagaries  in  bonnets,  "  scoops,"  and  calashes  were 
ingenious.  There  were  silks,  straws,  chips,  crapes, 
navarinos,  leghorns,  in  endless  variety.  One  hat  comes 
to  mind,  of  which  the  crown  stood  out  straight  behind 
the  head,  while  the  front  was  raised  nearly  pcrjuMidicu- 


78  QUABDIN 

lar,  like  a  misplaced  halo,  its  upper  edge  nearly  a  foot 
above  the  forehead.  The  intervening  space  was  cov- 
ered with  smoothly  stretched  satin  of  such  a  vivid  red 
that  it  burned  the  eyes  like  a  red  pepper  to  look  at  it. 
The  damsel's  face  seemed  to  be  in  the  heart  of  a  flame, 
and  her  features  could  never  be  recalled  afterward  apart 
from  that  fiery  background. 

There  was  one  grave  and  silent  old  man  who  was  a 
type  of  a  class.  He  was  poverty-stricken  but  decent ; 
dingy  but  clean  ;  yet  what  he  wore  —  of  what  material 
was  his  long  coat,  or  what  its  color — no  one  could  say. 
The  man  and  his  raiment  were  one  ;  nothing  was  more 
decided  in  hue  than  the  back  of  a  toad,  yet  the  entity 
was  siii  generis^  distinguishable  from  all  others.  His 
features  were  grotesque  in  ugliness,  yet  wore  a  look  of 
patience,  as  if  fate  could  do  him  no  further  harm.  His 
ways  were  solitary,  and  on  Sunday  he  sat  by  himself  in 
the  gallery,  his  quaint,  bushy  head  —  neither  gray  nor 
black  —  resting  against  a  pilaster  on  the  west  wall, 
whereof  the  white  paint  kept  an  enduring  impression. 

One  day,  in  sight  of  all  the  village  folk,  he  was  car- 
ried away  to  the  county  jail,  tied  with  a  cord  about  his 
wrists  and  body  —  a  prisoner  for  debt.  The  deputy 
sheriff  not  unfrequently  carried  away  prisoners,  but 
they  were  usually  drunkards  or  cheats,  while  this  old 
man  was  sober  and  harmless.  There  was  no  unwonted 
melancholy  upon  his  face — neither  anger  nor  tears  — 
and  he  said  not  a  word.  For  a  time  he  was  missed 
fr(jm  his  joost  in  the  gallery,  poor  old  man  ! 

From  the  beginning  of  the  present  century  there 
were  improvements  in  vehicles  and  tools.  The  old 
jolting  wagons  were  relieved  by  **  thorough  braces," 
leather  straps  supporting  the  body,  and  later  by  elliptic 


DRESS,  MANNERS,  AND   SPEECH  79 

springs  of  steel.  Chaises  with  bonnet-tops  were  affected 
by  well-to-do  people,  as  their  motion  was  easy  ;  but  they 
were  back-breaking  for  horses,  and  have  long  since  dis- 
appeared. Ploughs  used  to  be  made  of  wood,  cased  and 
pointed  with  steel,  but  were  supplanted  by  those  of 
solid  iron  with  steel  lips  many  years  ago. 

Dress  and  vehicles  are  important  so  far  as  they  con- 
cern beauty  and  comfort,  but  they  are  not  the  life  of  a 
people.  The  connection  with  the  past  was  in  (a  some- 
what softened)  religious  faith  and  practice  ;  in  traditions 
of  town  and  parish  government  ;  in  the  usages  of  domes- 
tic life,  and  in  the  old  and  homely  speech.  The  de- 
scendants of  both  Pil2:rims  and  Puritans  adhered  sub- 
stantially  to  the  ways  of  the  fathers  as  they  were  from, 
sa}^  1620  onward. 

A  traveller  who,  sixty  years  ago,  proposed  to  alight 
at  a  farmhouse  in  Ouabbin,  would  have  found  conditions 
nearly  the  same  as  those  which  existed  among  people 
of  the  same  class  in  old  colony  times,  and  among  the 
rural  English  of  the  same  period.  The  domestic  con- 
veniences would  have  been  such  as  have  been  described 
in  a  former  chapter,  —  the  great  chimney  and  open 
fireplace,  the  splint-bottomed  chairs,  the  spinning- 
wheels  and  loom.  He  would  have  been  offered  a  mug 
of  cider  or  a  canakin  of  rum.  At  dinner  would  be 
seen  a  boiled  leg  of  salt  pork,  or  boiled  ribs  of  salt  beef, 
with  mustard  or  horse-radish,  pickles,  and  hot  vege- 
tables ;  the  service  of  plain  delft,  with  steel  knives  and 
forks,  and  without  napkins.  Rye-and-Indian  bread 
would  be  served  on  a  wooden  trencher.  Pumpkin-  or 
apple-pie,  doughnuts,  and  cheese  would  follow. 

If  he  should  pass  the  night,  and  it  were  in  winter, 
he  would  go  \\\)  to  a  freezing  attic,  undress  while  stand- 


8o  QUAE  BIN 

ing  on  a  braided  woollen  mat,  and  get  into  a  feather-bed, 
which  rested  on  a  sack  of  straw,  and  that  upon  cords 
stretched  crosswise  in  a  solid  bedstead  of  maple.  Over 
him  would  be  spread  home-made  blankets,  and  a  blue 
woollen  coverlet  of  a  rude,  checked  pattern,  that  had 
been  woven  in  the  family  loom.  In  the  morning  he 
would  go  down  to  the  "  sink  "  in  the  lean-to,  next  to 
the  kitchen,  fortunate  if  he  had  not  to  break  ice  in 
order  to  get  water  to  wash  his  face  and  hands,  or  more 
fortunate  if  a  little  warm  water  was  poured  into  his 
basin  from  the  kettle  swung  over  the  kitchen-fire. 
After  using  vigorously  the  great  coarse  linen  towel 
that  hung  upon  a  roller  near  by,  he  would  be  ready  for 
a  preparatory  nipper  of  cider,  and  then  for  a  substan- 
tial breakfast.  This  might  be  of  ham  and  eggs,  or  of 
salt  fish  prepared  with  cream,  or  of  bean-porridge  (for 
which  a  ham-bone  furnished  the  stock),  or  of  cold  corned 
beef,  with  hot  potatoes,  and  usually  hot  bread  (called 
**  biscuits")  resembling  muffins;  and  with  sauces, 
pickles,  and  other  provocatives  in  plenty. 


HOW   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED  FOR  8 1 


CHAPTER   X 

HOW    THE    POOR    WERE    CARED    FOR 

There  were  not  a  great  many  people  in  Ouabbin 
who  were  not  poor,  as  the  world  considers  poverty,  but 
there  were  seldom  any  paupers.^  Destitute  foreigners 
in  Massachusetts  are  taken  to  one  of  the  State  alms- 
houses—  deplorable  aggregations  of  humanity.  Each 
town  in  its  corporate  capacity  is  under  obligation  to 
support  only  such  paupers  as  were  born  within  its 
limits,  or  have  "  acquired  a  settlement  "  therein.  ''  Ac- 
quiring a  settlement  "  is  something  not  easy  to  explain. 
As  we  shall  see,  a  Vv^oman,  not  being  a  holder  of  taxable 
property,  might  live  in  a  town  half  a  century  and  have 
no  legal  relation  to  it  ;  and  it  would  be  the  same  in  the 
case  of  a  man  who  had  not  held  public  office,  or  paid 
taxes  for  some  consecutive  years.  Instances  have  been 
known  when  wily  tov/n  officers  have  silently  omitted 
from  the  tax-list  the  names  of  men,  not  being  natives, 
v/hom  they  thought  might  sometime  require  public  aid. 
The  law  is  somewhat  intricate,  and  need  not  be  dwelt 
upon. 

Quabbin,  like  other  towns,  had  its  poor-farm,  which 

1  There  are  very  few  to-day.  The  ahnoners,  under  a  bequest  for  aiding  any 
deserving  poor  not  assisted  by  tlie  town,  have  some  difficulty  in  conscientiously 
distributing  the  annual  allowance.  One  man  to  whom  the  bounty  was  lately 
offered  said  he  didn't  tliink  he  ought  \.o  take  it  :  there  must  be  some  poorer  laniily 
than  his'n. 


82  QUABBIX 

was  town  property,  and  was  managed  by  some  man  in 
])ursuance  of  an  agreement  with  the  Overseers  of  the 
Poor,  who  w^ere  annually  chosen  by  the  people.  When 
friendless  and  destitute  persons,  legally  entitled  to  sup- 
port, were,  in  common  parlance,  "  flung  upon  the  town," 
the  keeper  of  the  poor-farm  provided  for  them  in  the 
house  he  occupied.  There  were  a  great  many  years 
during  which  the  keeper  and  his  wife  had  no  guests. 

Two  stories  follow,  in  which  the  prevalent  ideas  upon 
charity  may  appear. 

AUNT    KEZIAH 

It  was  Aunt  Keziah  who  said  the  bells  were  "ringin' 
for  Em'lv  Foster's  weddin'."  Poor  woman  !  no  wed- 
ding-bells  had  rung  for  Jicr.  She  was  old  and  com- 
fortably feeble,  and  had  many  strange  "feelin's,"  which 
she  thought  it  important  to  detail  and  illustrate  ;  but, 
though  she  was  well  past  seventy,  she  was  likely  still 
to  hold  on  for  a  score  of  years.  From  her  movements 
one  would  think  that  her  joints  had  been  badly  ad- 
justed at  first,  or  else  had  got  out  of  gear  by  long  use. 
Her  lower  jaw  at  times  had  a  sidewise  or  wabbling 
motion,  like  that  of  some  ruminants  ;  and,  when  her 
chin  rose  and  fell,  the  soft  white  skin  below  it  seemed 
to  be  the  flexible  envelope  of  a  bundle  of  cords, 
stretched  and  wrinkled  by  turns.  Upon  scanning  her 
face  attentively,  there  were  evident  traces  of  former 
good  looks,  if  not  of  beauty.  Her  nose  was  straight, 
her  forehead  regular,  and  her  blue  eyes,  behind  a  pair 
of  silver-bowed  '*  specs,"  had  still  a  fine  depth  of  color, 
although  their  forlorn  and  piteous  expression  was  at 
first  more  obvious  than  their  contour  and  hue.  Some 
effort  of  imagination  would  be  necessary  to  bring  back 


BOW   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED   FOR  ^l 

any  youthful  charm  to  her  shrivelled  face  and  figure, 
but  there  was  no  doubt  that  half  a  century  before  she 
had  been  an  attractive  woman.  She  was  neat  and 
cleanly,  except  for  the  browning;-  of  her  lip  by  snuff. 
Like  all  elderly  women  at  that  time,  she  wore  a  lace 
or  muslin  cap  ;  and  hers  was  generally  trimmed  with 
slate-colored  or  black  ribbons.  Her  dress  was  plain 
and  poor,  and  her  spare  shoulders  were  covered  by  a 
small  shawl.  Needless  to  say,  she  was  always  accorded 
a  warm  corner  by  the  fireplace. 

She  was  the  neighborhood's  aunt,  everybody's  Aunt 
Keziah  ;  and  much  more  the  aunt  of  those  who  were 
alien  to  her  blood  than  of  her  own  nephews  and  nieces. 
Strangers  compassionately  gave  her  shelter,  when  her 
kinsfolk  had  cast  her  off  and  appeared  not  to  care  what 
became  of  her.  Probably  she  would  not  have  been 
wholly  agreeable  as  a  permanent  member  of  a  house- 
hold, for  her  conversation  was  not  generally  cheerful. 
With  her  experiences,  how  could  it  be  t  But  if  her 
relatives  had  been  considerate  people,  with  a  little 
family  pride,  she  would  have  been  saved  from  the 
humiliation  v/hich  fell  upon  her. 

Her  industry  in  knitting  was  remarkable.  The  play 
of  needles  in  her  poor,  stiff-jointed  fingers  ceased  only 
when  at  intervals  she  explored  the  mysterious  folds  of 
her  dress  for  the  snuff-box,  or  wiped  her  "  specs," 
dimmed  by  contact  with  her  watery  eyes.  She  inclined 
little  to  gossip,  for  her  "subjectivity"  was  intense; 
her  own  past  griefs  and  present  ailments  were  of  more 
importance  than  the  affairs  of  neighbors. 

One  day,  having  finished  a  pinch  of  snuff  with  unu- 
sual satisfaction,  her  face  wore  a  beatific  expression 
quite  marvellous   to  the   small   boy  who   stood   by  her 


84  QUAE  BIN 

chair.  She  happened  for  the  moment  not  to  be  knit- 
ting; her  hands  were  partly  clasped,  and  the  thumbs 
were  slowly  turning  over  each  other.  She  was  almost 
purring.  "Aunt  Keziah,  what  makes  you  take  snuff  .^" 
*'  O,  sonny,  it-m-rests-me."  The  words  had  a  gliding 
kind  of  liaison,  and  were  enveloped  in  a  swelling  nasal 
hum.  It  seemed  fortunate  to  the  boy  that  the  aunt 
could  get  rested  on  such  easy  terms. 

Aunt  Keziah  told  her  story  to  the  carpenter's  wife 
bit  by  bit. 

''  I  was  born  on  the  Cape,  in  Truro,  an*  lived  ther  till 
our  fam'ly  moved  up  here,  say  fifty  year  ago.  When  I 
say  'our  fam'ly,'  I  mean  my  brothers  an'  their  families, 
for  father  an'  mother  died  daown  to  the  Cape,  an'  was 
berried  ther;  an'  I  hadn't  no  sister. 

"When  I  was  'bout  nineteen,  a  young  feller  came 
a-courtin'  mc,  —  a  sailor,  an'  a  smart  feller  he  was. 
E'enamost  all  on  'em  daown  ther  is  sea-farin'  men. 
Some  goes  long  v'yages,  an'  some  only  aout  ter  Chaleur, 
or  the  Banks,  a  fishin'  in  summer.  My  young  man 
sailed  sometimes  to  Europe,  an'  sometimes  'way  raound 
to  Aashy.  When  he  axed  me  to  merry  'im,  I  said  he 
must  settle  daown  on  land  ;  fer,  ef  he  kep  goin'  on  them 
long  v'yages,  his  wife  'ould  be  same  'z  a  widder  all  her 
days.  He  tol'  mc  he'd  du  'z  I  said  bimeby,  but  thet 
he'd  got  tu  go  one  more  v'yage,  'cause  he'd  promised, 
an',  bein'  fust  mate,  they  couldn't  du  'thout  'im.  I  felt 
drcffle  bad  to  think  of  his  goin'  off  agin,  for  he'd  told 
me  'bout  the  winds  an'  waves,  an'  haow  the  ship  some- 
times a'most  stood  on  cend,  an'  sometimes  rolled  over 
so  fur  't  you'd  think  she  wasn't  never  goin'  to  come  up 
agin.  Every  night  I  dreamt  of  some  offul  hurricane, 
an'  I  saw  Charles  —  that  was  his  name  —  in  a  boat  all 


HOJV   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED   EOR  85 

alone  on  a  sea  that  hadn't  no  shore  ;  or  else  a-clingin' 
tu  a  piece  of  a  mast,  with  sharks  a-steerin'  raoimd,  an' 
makin'  fer  to  bite  'im  in  two.  I  coiddn't  stand  it  no 
haow,  an'  when  he  come  agin'  we  had  a  talk. 

"  Sez  I,  *  Charles,'  sez  I,  '  the  Scriptur'  says,  "  What 
doos  et  profit  a  man  to  gain  the  hull  world  an'  lose  his 
own  soul  "i  "  An'  I  say,  what  '11  it  profit  you  er  me  ef 
you  airn  a  year's  wages,  an'  lay  yer  bones  on  'tother 
side  o'  the  world,  or  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea  .-*  Here 
ye  air,  on  yer  feet,  on  land,  an'  ef  yer  go  ter  sea  yer 
don't  know  where  ye'U  be.' 

'*  '  Oh,'  sez  he,  '  I've  alius  got  thru',  an'  I  sh'U  du  it 
ag'in.  'Twon't  be  long,  an'  it's  the  las'  time.'  —  *0 
Charles  ! '  sez  I,  '  sunthin'  tells  me  't  yer  can't  alius 
count  on  luck.  I've  seen  ye  in  my  dreams,  an'  my 
heart  stood  still  like  a  stone,  'twas  so  awful.' 

'' '  Naow  don't  you  be  talkin'  'bout  dreams,'  sez  he  ; 
*  bad  dreams  is  only  f'm  eatin'  mince-pie.' 

"  '  I  can't  help  it,'  sez  I  ;  'ef  you  go  'way  naow,  I 
don't  never  'xpcct  to  see. ye  agin.  Naow  ^/^^  be  per- 
suaded ! ' 

*'  He  was  tender-hearted  ez  a  man,  but  trew  grit  ez  a 
sailor.  I  c'd  see  that  his  feelin's  pulled  him  one  wav, 
while  his  dewty  gripped  him  'tother.  We  had  a  long 
talk,  but  'twas  pooty  much  the  same  thing  over  an'  over. 
At  last  sez  he,  *  The  wages  fer  this  v'yage,  'ith  what 
I've  got  in  bank,  '11  jest  make  up  enough  to  pay  fer  the 
haouse  of  the  Widder  Snow,  that's  for  sale.' 

"'  It's  a  pooty  house,'  sez  I,  '  an'  I  ain't  goin'  to  deny 
that  't  'ould  suit  you  an'  me  to  a  turn  ;  but  I'd  rather 
live  'ith  yer  under  a  whale-boat  turned  up-si-daown  on 
the  beach,  then  to  hev  yer  go  on  a  v'yage  for  a  jxillis.' 

"He  just  kinder  laafed  an'  kinder  smiled,  an'   looked 


S6  OUABBIX 

at  me  so  sweet  !  'Twa'n't  no  use.  While  he  looked  at 
me  so,  I  coukhi't  do  but  one  thing.  You  know  what  I 
done  :  I  hunLC  on  his  neck,  an'  kissed  him  a  hundred 
times.  I  k'n  sec  this  minnit  jest  how  he  looked:  blue 
roundabaout,  an'  duck  trowsis,  black  neck-han'kercher, 
low  shoes,  an'  flat  top  cap.  Haow  his  black  eyes 
seemed  devourin'  me,  praoud  an'  soft  by  turns  !  Ah, 
he  was  a  man  'ith  a  look  an'  a  step  ;  a  man  fer  a  woman 
to  look  twice  at,  an'  to  think  abaout  ever  arter.  Our 
partin'  was  pullin'  heart-strings,  an'  when  he'd  gone,  I 
was  in  a  dead  faint. 

'' His  vessel  was  baound  to  Chiny,  an' we  sh'd  nat- 
erally  be  'thout  hearin'  from  him  fur  nigh  a  year.  But 
the  year  went  by  ;  an'  then  month  arter  month  there 
was  nothin'  but  waitin'  an'  dreadin',  no  news.  In  two 
years  the  owners  gin  up  all  hope,  an'  I  wanted  ter  put 
on  mournin',  but  the  folks  wouldn't  hear  on't.  What 
I  suffered  in  them  two  years,  nobody  but  God  knows  ! 
I  wonder  I'm  alive. 

*'  Wal,  there  was  a  storekeeper  daown  thar,  a  decent 
enough  man,  who'd  lost  his  wife,  an'  he  come  an'  axed 
me.  to  be  a  mother  to  his  little  childern.  But  when  I 
thought  o'  my  Charles,  my  heart  riz  right  up  agin  this 
man.  '  Who  knows,'  thought  I,  '  ef  Charles  ain't  naow 
on  one  o'  them  cannible  islands,  livin'  on  bananas  an* 
cokernuts,  or  waitin'  in  some  strange  corner  'v  th'  airth 
for  a  chance  to  git  hum  ! '  I  thanked  the  storekeeper 
an'  sent  'im  'bout  his  business  ;  I  couldn't  be  mother 
to  any  man's  childern  but  Charley's. 

"  I  hed  another  offer,  but  thet  didn't  take  no  time  to 
ahnswer.  So  father  sez  to  me,  sez  he,  *  Keziah,  yeou'd 
better  not  go  mournin'  all  yeour  days.  Arter  I'm  gone 
yeou'U  need  somebody  to  take  keer  o'  ye.  Don't  throw 
'way  all  yeour  chances.     Good  men  air  skurce.' 


HO  IV   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED  FOR  8/ 

*'  I  ahnswered  kinder  lightly  ;  —  I  was  so  baound  up 
in  Charles  that  I  couldn't  think  of  another  man. 

"  I  might  'a  had  a  hum  o'  my  own  to-day,  instid  o' 
bein'  tossed  about  from  pillar  to  -post,  like  a  piece 
o'  worn-out  furnitur'.  I  might  'a  ben  some  darlin's 
mother  instid  of  bein'  everybody's  aunt.  Seems  ef 
God  oughtn't  let  folks  come  inter  the  world  thet  he 
don't  mean  to  take  better  keer  on.  He  oughtn't  to  've 
gin  me  feelin's,  jest  ter  torment  me  a  while,  an'  then 
hev  'em  dry  up,  like  a  last  year's  hollyhock. 

^'Howsever,  I'd  made  my  bed,  an'  I  hed  to  lay  in  't. 
I  wouldn't  merry  the  men  that  wanted  me,  an'  bimeby 
I  come  ter  be  so  peaked  with  my  sorrers,  thet  no  man 
wuth  lookin'  at  would  've  had  me. 

"  Fust  mother  died,  then  father.  He  hadn't  much 
money,  an'  my  brothers  said,  '  Let's  go  up  in  the  west 
part  o'  the  State  an'  buy  a  farm  ;  an'  you  kin  live  with 
us.'  I  let  'em  do  what  they  wanted,  an'  went  with  'cm. 
I  didn't  much  keer  fer  anythin'  in  life. 

"  They  bought  land,  an'  part  on't  ought  ter  be  mine, 
but  'taint.  They  built  a  couple  o'  haouses,  an'  worked 
hard.  An'  I  worked  hard,  year  arter  year,  slavin'  my- 
self fust  fer  Harmon  an'  his  fam'ly,  an'  then  fer  Joe, 
who,  'z  yeou  know,  lived  alone.  Ez  Joe  hadn't  nothin' 
better  to  du,  he  took  to  drinkin',  an'  bimeby  he  got  so 
bad  't  I  couldn't  even  go  inter  his  haouse.  Then  Har- 
mon's wife  died,  an'  he  got  another.  Yeou  know  her. 
I  needn't  say  what  she  is.  In  which  of  the  two  haouses 
there  was  the  most  deviltry,  I  couldn't  say.  What  I 
onderwent  with  that  wife  o'  Harmon's  I  couldn't  tell 
ye  in  a  week  ;  an'  in  Joe's  haouse  there  warnt  notliiii . 
He  lived  like  a  man  who  pulls  the  clabberds  off  'm  the 
outside  of  his  haouse  ter  burn  fer  ter  heat  the  inside 
with. 


88  QUABBIN 

''Them  forty  year!  The  tiine's  like  a  night-mare 
when  I  think  on"t.  I  hope  the  Lord  'U  give  me  credit 
for  'em  when  it  comes  to  my  reck'nin'. 

"When  I  had  the  rheumatiz,  naow  'bove  five  year 
ago,  an'  couldn't  do  nothin',  Harmon's  wife  put  him  up 
ter  fling  me  on  the  taown,  —  send  me  ter  the  poor-farm. 
I  couldn't  walk  nor  help  myself  more  'n  a  child  three 
days  old.  But  Harmon,  he  packed  me  inter  the  wag- 
gin,  an'  druv  me  ter  the  poor-farm,  an'  left  me  thar. 

*'  The  overseers  w^as  notified,  an'  they  come,  an'  sez, 
*Yeou  can't  stay  here.'     'Wal,'  sez  I,  '  I  don't  wanter 
stay  here;  but,  ef  I  i-//^?;//c/ wanter,  I  sh'd  like  to  know 
%vhy  I  can't.'     '  'Cause  yeou  haint  no  settlement  in  this 
taown,'  sez  they.      '  Yeou  was  born  daown  on  the  Cape; 
an'  ther  yeour  father   lived   an'  died,  an'  ther's  yeour 
settlement.     So  yeou  see,  ef  yeou're  flung  on  the  taown, 
we  sh'll  hev  to  send  ter  Truro;  an'  the  overseers  ther 
'11  hev  ter  come  ter  kerry  yeou  off,  an'  take  keero'  yer.' 
'But,'  sez  I,  '/don't  know  anybody  daown   ter  Truro  ; 
it's  forty  year  sence   I  was   ther.      I  don't  wanter  go 
'mong  strengers.     It's  bad  enough  ter  go  ter  the   poor- 
farm  when  yeou  know  the  folks.'     '  Wal,  that's  the  law,' 
sez  they,  an'  off  they  went,  an',  I  'spose,  writ  the  letter. 
"  Nex'    few  days    I    didn't    du    nothin'    but    cry.      I 
couldn't    eat,    though    Mis'  Tliurstin,    the   wife   of   the 
keeper,  got  me  all  the  nice  things  she  c'd  think  on. 

"Then  come  a  strange  man  a-drivin'  up  tu  the 
haouse,  an'  when  he  come  in,  sez  he,  '  I've  come  fer 
yeou.'  'Wal,  I  ain't  goin','  sez  I.  '  Yes,  yeou  be,'  sez 
he.  '  S'p'osin'  I  won't  } '  sez  I.  '  Then  I  sh'll  make 
yer,'  sez  he.  Then  I  gin  a  yell  't  yeou  might  'er  heerd 
way  over  to  the  Widder  Peasoe's  place.  I  oughter  ben 
ashamed,  but  I   couldn't  help  it.      I  got  the  tongs  an' 


HOH'    THE  POOR    WERE   CARED   FOR 


89 


the  shovle,  an'  I  dared  that  man  to  tech  me.  But  my 
strength  didn't  hold  aout.  I  was  full  o'  rheumatiz,  an' 
my  poor  hands  let  the  shovle  an'  tongs  drop.  Then  I 
dropped  tu,  —  clean  gone.  Then  Mis'  Thurstin,  she 
put  me  ter  bed,  an'  Mr.  Thurstin  an'  the  strange  man 
went  tu  the  village  ter  git  the  doctor.  When  the 
doctor  went  back,  arter  seein'  me,  I've  heered  he  made 
some  talk  'bout  kerryin'  off  a  woman  of  my  age  in  that 
way  ;  an'  there  w^as  considerable  stir.  The  man  from 
Truro  finally  went  off,  'cause  Reuf  Wadley  and  Reub 
Newman  'they  said  they'd  be  ahnswerable  for  any 
'xpense,  an'  that  the  taown  o'  Truro  shouldn't  hev  any 
damage  on  my  'count. 

'*  Yeou  know  how  I've  lived  sence.  Some  o'  the  timie 
I  haint  lived,  but  jest  ben  distriberted  in  morsils  raound 
the  parish.  I  stay  a  couple  o'  weeks  'ith  Reuf,  —  he's 
a  good  man  even  ef  he's  a  leetle  flighty, — then  a 
couple  with  Reub.  Then  I  come  here  ;  then  I  go  to 
yeour  uncle's,  an'  then  to  ol'  Squire  Hobson's,  an'  so 
on.  All  I  hope  is,  the  Lord  '11  call  me  afore  I  wear 
aout  all  my  welcomes  ;  fer  I  ain't  a-goin'  tu  Truro. 

"  Ycou  don't  ketch  me  a  talkin'  hard  'bout  the  way 
my  brothers  treated  me  ;  there's  enough  to  du  that, 
'thout  me.  I'm  sorry  for  'em.  They're  gittin'  ter  be 
old  men.  Harmon's  older  than  I  be,  an'  Joe,  l^y  his 
drinkin'  ways,  hez  made  himself  actilly  older'n  Harmon. 
"  I  haint  got  ter  trouble  'em  any  more,  nor  any  that 
was  willin'  to  see  their  flesh  and  blood  carted  off  ter 
the  poor-farm.  I  hope  none  on  'cni  will  need  scch  a 
hum  in  their  ol'  days." 

Such  was  the  story  of  Aunt  Keziah.  She  continued 
to  make  her  rounds,  not  like  Kdic  Ochiltree  as  a 
*' sturdy  beggar,"  but  as  a  modest  friend  and  depend- 


go  QUABBIN 

ent.  She  knitted,  darned,  and  mended,  solaced  and 
**  rested  "  herself  with  snuff,  and  wiped  her  dim 
"  specs  "  until  her   weary  eyes   ceased  from  weeping. 

THE    WIDOW    CARTER 

One  frosty  afternoon  the  blacksmith  set  his  two 
sons  and  hired  man  to  sawing  and  splitting  firewood. 
Farmers  used  to  bring  wood  in  lengths  of  four  feet  ; 
and  people  who  used  cooking-stoves,  then  recently 
introduced,  had  it  cut  in  lengths  of  a  foot  before  put- 
ting it  away  for  use. 

After  sundown  on  this  day  (one  never  said  sunset) 
the  smith's  boys  were  told  to  bring  out  their  sleds,  and 
pack  them  with  the  neatly  prepared  wood  ;  and  besides 
they  loaded  a  pair  of  sleigh-runners,  having  a  cover  of 
boards  (in  effect  the  bottom  part  of  a  sleigh)  and, 
between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  v/hen  the  hired  man  had 
gone,  the  father  and  sons  made  their  way  in  silence 
through  the  village,  drawing  the  three  sleds  over  the 
polished  road.  They  passed  the  tavern  and  stores  and 
came  near  the  common. 

Not  even  in  the  fulness  of  summer  nor  in  many-hucd 
autumn  have  the  elms  and  maples  of  Ouabbin  such  an 
effect  as  when  on  a  still  winter's  night  they  stand  leaf- 
less under  the  moon,  and  cast  their  network  of  shadows 
upon  pure  and  unbroken  snow.  The  moonlight  lends  a 
glory  to  common  objects.  Groups  of  white  houses  and 
dark  bushes  seem  like  composed  pictures  ;  the  steeple 
becomes  a  marble  shaft,  and  moving  objects  are  like  a 
succession  of  instantaneous  photographs. 

As  the  party  passed  under  the  great  trees,  there  was 
not  a  cloud,  nor  a  breath  of  wind  ;  and  the  shadows  of 
the  main  and  lesser  branches,  and  then  of  longer  boughs 


HOPV   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED  FOR  9 1 

and  slender  twigs,  down  to  the  minutest  ramifications 
were  imprinted  on  the  snow  as  blue  laccwork.  The 
beauty  of  that  blue  pattern  on  dazzling  white  could 
never  be  forgotten. 

The  boys  wondered  where  they  were  going,  and  began 
to  ask  questions  ;  but  the  father,  who  could  be  peremp- 
tory if  occasion  required,  briefly  ordered  them  to  make 
no  talk,  but  do  as  they  had  been  told.  '*  Poorty  bright 
night,"  he  added,  "for  what  we've  got  ter  dew;  an'  yer 
mustn't  make  the  least  mite  o'  noise." 

They  were  near  the  house  of  the  Widow  Carter,  and 
the  party  stopped  to  reconnoitre.  There  were  no  lights 
visible  in  front  or  rear,  and  it  was  probable  the  inmates 
had  gone  to  bed.  The  sleds  were  drawn  into  the  back- 
yard without  a  word  being  spoken,  and  were  unloaded 
under  the  shed  without  noise.  The  snow  m.uffled  their 
feet,  and  the  pieces  of  wood  were  laid  down  gently. 
When  the  last  sticks  were  taken  from  the  old  sleis^h 
bottom,  the  boys  saw  a  bag  of  meal  or  flour,  and  a  few 
small  packages.  These  were  placed  near  the  back  door, 
and  then,  after  a  look  at  the  windows,  the  smith  and  his 
sons  returned  home. 

"Ye  see,  boys,"  said  the  father,  while  they  were  on 
the  road,  "Widder  Carter,  ez  long's  her  husband  lived, 
was  used  ter  good  livin'  an'  good  company,  —  'long  o' 
college  folks  an'  city  folks,  an'  not  'ith  workin'  men 
sech  ez  I  be.  Arter  he  died  an'  left  her  a  widder,  'ith 
nothin'  to  live  on,  she's  had  to  come  daown  a  bit  ;  an' 
she's  come  back  here  where  she  lived  ez  a  gal,  —  she  'n 
her  two  darters.  They  can't  airn  much  a  sewin',  even 
ef  she  alius  got  it  ter  dew  ;  an'  Mis'  Faben,  who's  ben 
there  callin',  tol'  me  yistcrdy  she's  afcard  they  hain't  a 
mite  o'  wood  nor  meal. 


92  QUABBIN 

"She  puts  a  good  face  on  metters,  the  v/idder  doos, 
an'  her  darters  come  to  meet  in'  ez  spruce  ez  two  pine 
saphns.  She  wouldn't  hev  no  cherity,  not  she  ;  but 
I've  felt  bad  all  day  long,  a  thinkin'   on  her. 

**  When  she  was  a  gal  she  used  ter  be  often  enough 
at  your  gran'thcr's,  for  he  was  a  master  hand  to  tell 
stories  an'  sing  ol'  songs;  an'  a  nice,  bright  gal  she 
was.  One  day  he  wrote  on  his  slate  some  vairses  'bout 
her, — the  widder  that  is  naow,  Sally  Cotton  she  was 
then,  —  an'  she  larfed,  I  k'n  tell  yeou.  She  called  him 
an  ol'  beau,  an'  run  on  scch  a  rig  that  he  act  illy  blushed. 
A  lively  gal  she  was." 

They  had  reached  their  own  door,  and  while  the 
smith's  hand  was  on  the  latch,  he  stopped,  and  said  in 
a  serious  tone, — 

"But  she's  praoud,  y'  know,  the  widder  is  ;  an'  she'd 
feel  hurt  like  all  nater  ef  she  sh'd  know  who  gin  her 
that  air  wood  an'  meal.  Sech  wimmin  air  techy  ez  net- 
tles 'bout  takin'  favors,  speshily  f'm  w^orkin'  men.  So 
y'  air  not  ter  tell  on't,  not  ter  anybody.  An'  don't  ye 
ever  go  ter  hint  in',  nuther,  nor  lookin'  knowin',  nor 
wistful,  at  her  darters.  When  you  see  'em  to-morrer, 
or  any  day,  at  school,  jest  you  act  naterally,  an'  look  ez 
ef  nothin'  had  happened.  Some  little  chaps  k'n  tell  all 
they  know,  an'  more  tu,  'thout  savin'  a  word." 

Later,  they  were  sitting  by  the  kitchen-fire,  the  boys 
eating  apples,  and  the  blacksmith  with  his  chin  in  his 
grimy  and  calloused  hand;  —  his  "baird"  of  two  days' 
growth  anxious  for  the  razor.  Memory  was  bringing 
pictures  of  long-past  gayety  and  bloom  that  made  him 
forget,  present  poverty  and  toil.  The  sons  observed  his 
meditative  air,  and  wondered  if  the  widow  was  ever 
half  as  pretty  as  her  youngest  daughter,  Sarah.     They 


HOW   THE   POOR    WERE   CARED   EOR  93 

thought  that  if  the  mother  had  resembled  the  favorite 
of  all  the  village  boys,  the  firewood  and  their  after- 
noon's work  had  not  been  thrown  away. 

The  secret  was  kept  by  all  concerned  ;  by  the  widow 
and  her  daughters  from  pride ;  by  the  household  of  the 
blacksmith  from  instinctive  delicacy.  Once,  in  the 
course  of  a  spat  among  the  school  children,  when  Sally 
Carter  for  a  moment  lost  her  temper,  and  said  a  spite- 
ful word,  the  eldest  boy  came  near  "splitting"  upon 
her  —  which  would  have  been  brutal — but  he  recovered 
himself,  remembered  his  father's  injunction,  endured 
the  stinging  epithet,  and  held  his  tongue. 

This  slight  story,  sad  to  say,  will  not  have  any 
romantic  termination.  Whatever  may  have  been  the 
blacksmith's  motives  or  memories,  his  heart  was  heart  of 
oak.  But  it  was  a  case  of  doing  good  by  stealth  under 
circumstances  that  were  almost  pathetic.  For  of  all  the 
men  of  his  class  in  the  village  he  was  least  able  to  do 
what  he  did.  He  worked  hard,  saved  little,  and  trusted 
to  Providence  for  the  future.  There  were  people  who 
could  have  helped  the  widow  at  her  need  without  feel- 
ing it  ;  but  it  might  not  have  occurred  to  them  to  treat 
her  with  the  chivalric  delicacy  which  seemed  so  natural 
to  him. 

The  Widow  Carter,  not  long  after,  made  a  rich  mar- 
riage, at  which  everybody,  including  the  anxious  con- 
tingent of  old  maids,  heartily  rejoiced.  She  did  not 
need  any  more  sacrifices  from  the  humble  friend  of  her 
youth. 

On  the  Sundav  after  her  marriaire  she  came  to  meet- 
ing,  of  course,  with  her  husband  and  daughters.  The 
richness  of  her  silks  and  velvets,  though  sober  in  color, 
was   the   talk   of  the   women   of   (Hiabbin    for   at    least 


94  QUA  BE  IN 

half  a  dozen  quilting-bees.  Her  demeanor  was  little 
changed  ;  since  her  girlish  days  she  had  always  been 
reserved.  The  daughters  were  not  at  all  lifted  up ; 
there  was  no  need  ;  they  had  always  considered  them- 
selves born  in  the  purple.  They  looked  at  the  black- 
smith's boys,  and  bowed  with  their  eyelids.  The  boys 
looked  at  each  other,  and  the  thought  of  a  certain 
moonlit  night  flitted  on  the  glances  between  them. 

After  service  was  over,  and  while  the  congregation 
was  moving  slowly  through  the  vestibule,  the  black- 
smith chanced  to  pass  near  the  newly-married  pair. 
He  said  simply  "■  Good-mornin',''  nodding  to  both,  *'  I 
wish  ye  both  joy."  The  new  husband  mumbled  some- 
thing indistinctly,  drew  up  the  sharp  corner  of  his 
standing  collar,  and  looked  away.  The  new  wife  with 
a  painful  politeness  of  manner,  said  "  It  is  hardly  the 
time,  is  it,  for  worldly  compliments,  just  after  such  a 
sermon  }  However,  I  thank  you,  and  —  I  wish  you 
well."  While  she  spoke  she  looked  at  him  as  if  she 
would  have  him  remember  her  altered  station,  and  his 
own,  and  then  slowly  went  out,  leaning  on  her  hus- 
band's arm.  But  she  did  not  fail  to  hear  the  reply, 
that  might  have  had  a  throb  under  it  :  *'  Tears  then  't 
our  Lord  wasn't  right  when  he  said  'twas  lawful  to  du 
good  on  a  Sahberday  !  "  But  the  blacksmith's  wife 
pulled  his  sleeve  and  the  scene  ended.  His  boys 
thought  that  if  the  great  lady  had  o?ily  k7iown,  she 
wouldn't  have  been  putting  on  airs  to  their  "  old 
brick  "  of  a  father. 

Sally  Carter,  the  adored  of  Ouabbin  boys,  at  the  age 
of  twelve  was  round-faced,  chubby,  and  rosy,  with  soft 
brown  hair,  and  great,  laughing,  blue  eyes.  But  after 
her  kittenish  days  there  was  no  romantic  sentiment  to 


HOW   THE  POOR    WERE   CARED   FOR  95 

interfere  with  her  practical  views  of  life.  She  devel- 
oped in  intellect  as  in  physical  frame,  and  became  a 
solid,  self-centered  woman.  Her  undeniable  beauty 
and  talents  were  turned  to  good  account  in  securing  a 
husband  and  a  position.  At  forty  she  was  a  leader  in 
society,  plump  and  stately,  and  with  the  aplomb  of  a 
duchess. 

It  would  have  been  something  for  her  to  remember 
in  her  days  of  splendor,  if  she  had  chanced  to  look  out 
of  her  bedroom  window  on  that  moonlit  night  when 
the  sleds  were  unloaded. 


96  QUAE  BIN" 


CHAPTER    XI 

CHARACTER 

A  FARMER  of  the  better  class  in  Quabbin  knew  that 
his  farm  had  been  made  productive  by  the  labor  of 
generations.  His  fathers  had  uprooted  stumps,  dug 
out  or  blasted  bowlders,  picked  off  loose  stones,  cut 
water-channels,  kept  down  useless  "  brush,"  and  made 
more  and  more  lines  of  stone  wall  to  replace  rotting 
fences  ;  and  he  followed  in  their  steps,  keeping  what 
they  had  gained,  and  adding  new  conquests  to  grass  or 
grain  fields.  He  had  a  big  barn  and  a  comfortable 
house  ;  he  knew  the  points  of  cattle,  and  drove  a  good 
horse.  Had  you  asked  him,  he  would  have  assured 
you  that  he  held  religion  to  be  man's  chief  concern, 
and  ''eddication  "  next  ;  but  the  truth  was  he  believed 
in  Work  first  of  all,  so  that  every  human  being  should 
stand  in  his  own  shoes,  indebted  only  to  his  own  efforts 
for  his  living  and  his  place  in  the  world. 
'  That  was  the  eternal  condition  and  basis  of  charac- 
ter, without  which  the  church,  the  school,  and  all 
other  blessings  would  have  been  naught.  Not  that  he 
ever  reasoned  about  it,  for  the  notion  was  born  in  him  ; 
it  was  something  as  unconsidered  as  air,  yet  as  vital  ; 
something  taken  for  granted,  like  gravitation,  and,  like 
that,  immutable  and  not  to  be  trifled  with  ;  else,  like  a 
wall  out  of  plumb,  the  man  would  come  to  the  ground. 


CHARACTER  97 

The  blessed  doctrine  of  work,  it  is  true,  was  held  in 
other  parts  of  the  world.  Where  were  workers  more 
industrious  than  in  rural  France,  in  England,  or  in  Scot- 
land ?  Yet  the  New  England  farmer  stood  up  in  his 
simple  dignity  as  did  no  other  working-man  on'  earth. 
Others  toiled  and  saved  ;  others  were  godly  and 
brotherly-affectionate  ;  others  saw  in  the  school  the 
hope  of  their  offspring  and  of  the  state  ;  but  his  spirit 
had  attained  a  high  serenity,  and  possessed  an  unol)- 
trusive  force,  unknown  before. 

If  Carlyle  in  the  time  of  his  poverty  had  accepted 
the  invitation  of  Emerson,  and  gone  to  live  in  Massa- 
chusetts, his  experience  would  have  changed  the  Old- 
Workl  doctrines  of  his  books  from  door-sill  to  ridge- 
pole. He  would  have  seen  in  what  way  the  true  dignity 
of  labor  was  possible,  and  that  in  Great  Britain,  for 
the  overwhelming  majority,  it  was  not  possible.  It 
was  seen  long  ago  by  Sir  Henry  Wotton,  when  he 
wrote,  — 

"  How  happy  is  he  born  or  taught 
Who  seiveth  not  another's  will." 

It  was  felt  by  the  Puritan  leaders,  when  grants  of 
land  were  made,  of  reasonable  size,  in  sevcraltv,  and 
in  fee-simple  to  all  freemen  ;  when  there  was  no  lordly 
estate,  no  entail,  no  possessor  of  a  *'  feu,"  no  rent- 
charge,  no  menial  service  to  render,  no  one  to  look  up 
to  between  the  working  owner  and  the  blue  sky.  A 
man  so  based  can  no  more  be  overturned  than  a 
pyramid.  One  needs  to  have  been  born  under  such 
a  system  to  appreciate  its  influence  on  character.  l'\'w 
in  Great  Britain  understand  this,  because  they  have 
been    reared    under   feudal   influences,  and    at    present 


98  QUAD  BIN 

they  look   more    at  the  economic   aspect   of   the  land 
question. 

The  owners  of  the  bulk  of  the  land  in  the  United 
Kingdom  could  be  assembled  in  a  good-sized  concert- 
hall,  an  anomaly  of  more  importance  than  any  inequal- 
ity in  the  British  constitution.  In  Great  Britain  the 
city  warehouse  and  the  seaside  villa  are  said  to  belong 
to  the  occupier,  but  it  is  not  a  possession  in  fee-simple. 
The  nominal  owner  has  built  upon  land  which  was  not 
sold  to  him,  and,  though  he  holds  it  in  perpetuity,  it  is 
upon  condition  of  a  perpetual  annual  payment,  called 
ground  rent  in  England  and  feu  duty  in  Scotland. 
That  is  a  burden  from  which  he  can  never  be  free,  and 
which  will  rest  upon  the  latest  of  his  descendants  or 
representatives.  It  can  seldom  be  compounded  by  a 
lump  sum  of  money,  either  on  account  of  an  entail,  or 
because  the  proprietor  wishes  to  assure  to  his  heirs  an 
income  that  will  not  be  affected  by  vicissitudes  in  trade, 
or  by  fluctuations  in  the  money  market.  Let  com- 
merce, agriculture,  or  banking  perish,  the  owner  of  the 
feu  is  untouched. 

British  people  often  say  to  an  American  '^  We  are 
as  free  as  you,  and  in  some  things  more  so."  But  that 
is  not  true  as  to  one  of  the  prime  conditions  of  free- 
dom, the  right  to  own  land.  That  is  not  within  the 
reach  of  fifty  men  in  a  million. 

A  similar  inequality  prevails  in  regard  to  taxation 
for  municipal  or  local  purposes,  at  least  in  Scotland. 
The  proportion  borne  by  landed  proprietors  is  ridicu- 
lously small  ;  and  in  cities  it  is  not  the  "superiors,"  nor 
the  leading  financiers,  nor  the  great  merchants,  who 
are  burdened  by  taxes,  but  the  shopkeepers,  mechanics, 
and  middle-class  people. 


CHARACTER  99 

To  recount  the  inequalities  of  British  municipal  taxa- 
tion would  appear  to  be  wandering  far  from  the  story 
of  Ouabbin  ;  but,  in  considering  the  foundations  of 
character  in  New  England,  it  is  necessary  to  contrast 
the  condition  of  other  people  of  our  race  who  are 
nominally  free,  but  who  can  never  be  really  so  while 
the  eldest  son  robs  his  brothers  and  sisters,  and  while 
landowners  and  farmers  are  distinct  classes  by  law  or 
heredity.  The  rent  of  farms  in  Great  Britain  is 
adjusted  according  to  the  product  of  the  soil  under 
good  management.  The  "  superior  "  runs  no  risk  of 
falling  prices,  of  fires  in  ricks,  or  of  tempest,  flood,  or 
pestilence  ;  and  any  one  of  these  calamities  may  ruin 
the  tenant.  The  industrious  and  saving  farmer  knows 
that  his  labor  and  self-denial  are  not  primarily  for  him- 
self, but  for  his  ''superior."  He  may,  by  the  exercise 
of  patience  and  other  Christian  virtues,  come  to  a  state 
of  resignation  and  even  of  content,  but  he  will  never  be 
the  man  he  might  be  if  he  toiled  on  his  own  land. 
For  the  sake  of  character,  better  the  poorest  of  farms 
with  independence  than  the  most  productive  with 
servility. 

What  has  been  said  of  farmers  in  Ouabbin  was  true, 
though  perhaps  in  less  degree,  of  mechanics.  The 
smith  or  the  joiner  who  owned  his  house  and  shop  was 
on  equal  terms  with  the  farmer,  his  customer,  and 
could  hold  up  his  head  with  the  best.  The  families  of 
mechanics  were  quite  as  intelligent,  because  more 
given  to  reading.  All  these  sturdy  workers  would 
have  been  worth  the  studv  of  an  observer  like  Carlyle  ; 
for  he  would  have  seen  that  there  were  attitudes  more 
manly  than  dependence  upon  the  great  ;  and  that  con- 
sideration and  condescension  on  the  part   of  superiors, 


lOO  QUABBIN 

so  much  insisted  upon  in  Past  and  Present,  would  be 
superfluous  if  there  were  free  dealings  in  land,  and  if 
the  effects  of  feudalism  in  society  could  be  got  rid  of. 
It  is  not  cosseting,  nor  soup  kitchens,  nor  the  encoura- 
ging smiles  of  Lady  Bountiful,  that  Hodge  needs,  so 
much  as  to  be  allowed  to  stand  up. 

"  An'  that's  the  old  Ainerikin  idee, 
To  make  a  man  a  Man,  an'  let  him  be." 

The  fact  of  personal  independence  is  momentous  and 
far-reachins:.  Manhood  is  the  first  of  values.  It  does 
not  matter  that  lands  are  more  profitably  worked  in 
Great  Britain  ;  nor  would  it  matter  if  it  were  true  that 
tenants  realize  more  from  hired  farms  than  they  would 
from  land  of  their  own.  A  man,  if  he  chooses,  has  a 
right  to  earn  less;  and,  whatever  he  does,  he  is  richer 
in  his  poverty,  if  there  is  no  one  over  him  to  whom  he 
must  lout. 

The  independence  of  citizens  in  towns  like  Quabbin 
was  further  assured  by  having  a  share  in  the  manage- 
ment of  town  and  parish  affairs.  In  theory  the  right 
of  a  tenant-farmer  in  Great  Britain  may  be  similar,  but 
in  practice  it  is  wholly  otherwise.  Public  business  is 
entirely  out  of  the  control  of  the  people,  and  perhaps 
wisely  so  in  the  present  state  of  things.  The  men  of 
Quabbin  formed  a  little  democracy.  In  the  thought 
of  Daniel  Webster  (bettered  afterward  by  Theodore 
Parker,  and  then  repeated  by  Abraham  Lincoln),  it  was 
"a  government  of  the  people,  for  the  people,  and  by 
the  people." 

Having  seen  on  what  ground  these  men  of  Quabbin 
stood,  and  what  manner  of  spirit  was  theirs,  we  can  un- 
derstand the  invincibility   of  the   "  embattled  farmers  " 


CHARACTER  lOI 

during  the  war  for  independence,  and  appreciate  their 
tenacity  of  patriotism,  and  of  the  undying  memories 
bequeathed  from  sire  to  son.  We  see  that  Quabbin, 
and  towns  like  it,  have  been  nurseries  of  manly  virtues, 
and  that,  with  this  basis  of  character,  men's  accent  and 
gait  are  matters  of  small  consequence.  We  can  be 
patient  with  a  ploughman's  walk,  and  with  his  drawling 
equanimity,  which  a  rain  of  grape-shot  coukl  not  hurry; 
and  we  need  not  mind  much  the  texture  and  slouch i- 
ness  of  a  frock,  when  the  wearer  is  sober,  self-respect- 
ing, and  just.  The  man  who  makes  us  smile  with  his 
naive  look  and  tone  when  he  ejaculates  ''  Du  tell !  "  ''  I 
want  ter  know!"  and  "  Yeou  don't  say  so!"  may  be 
one  who  governs  his  house  wisely,  educates  his  chil- 
dren, goes  to  meeting  and  enjoys  a  sermon  with 
"meat"  in  it,  and  is  a  good  neighbor,  and  (according 
to  his  light)  a  public-spirited  citizen. 

The  immediate  descendants  of  the  Puritans  were  not 
consciously  unsocial,  but  their  serious  views,  self-denial, 
and  determination  made  them  appear  so  ;  and  the  iso- 
lation of  families,  all  bound  to  unremitting  labor  by  the 
necessities  of  an  unproductive  soil  and  a  rigorous  cli- 
mate, was  in  marked  contrast  with  tlie  friendly  famili- 
arity which  prevailed  in  Virginia  and  in  other  colonies, 
where  fox-hunting,  racing,  and  merry-makings  enlivened 
every  rural  neighborhood. 

In  New  England  the  home,  the  church,  the  school, 
and  the  town-meeting  formed  the  whole  of  life,  with  its 
duties,  its  training,  its  pleasures,  and  its  hopes.  The 
head  of  the  family  was  much  alone  ;  and,  while  he 
toiled  upon  the  bleak  hillside,  or  wrought  in  the  work- 
shop, his  thoughts  were  upon  the  last  sermon,  or  upon 
some  other  grave  topic.     Although  without  scholastic 


I02  QUABBm 

training,  he  was  generally  able  to  take  a  firm  hold  of 
Calvinistic  theology,  and  with  the  aid  of  faith  to 
survey  its  related  doctrines  with  a  certain  sense  of 
mastery. 

In  geometry  the  mind  is  satisfied  when  the  Q.  E.  D. 
is  understandingly  reached  ;  there  is  no  need  to  review 
the  steps  of  reasoning  in  a  proposition  that  has  been 
fully  wrought  out  ;  but  the  Puritan  was  never  weary  of 
repeated  demonstrations  of  Calvinistic  theorems  ;  they 
were  the  objects  of  daily  contemplation,  —  his  meat  and 
drink  and  solemn  joy. 

Some  were  continually  probing  themselves,  with  a 
restless  and  almost  agonizing  anxiety,  to  know  if  they 
could  really  acquiesce  with  the  Divine  decree,  and  still 
praise  God,  if  it  should  happen  that  by  that  decree  they 
were  included  among  the  damned. 

They  did  not  relish  mere  exhortations,  or  vague  gen- 
eralities in  sermons  ;  they  hungered  for  the  deep  things 
of  God,  and  loved  to  ponder  upon  the  awful  obscurities 
of  the  Divine  purposes.  They  admired  the  preaching 
which  taxed  their  faculties  to  the  utmost,  and  which 
led  them  to  rest  on  faith,  and  to  wait  for  the  light  of 
eternity  to  make  clear  the  problems  that  confounded 
human  reason. 

So,  chief  among  the  elements  of  character  and  train- 
ing, must  be  reckoned  the  influence  of  a  stern  theology, 
which,  in  silence  and  loneliness,  sobered  thought,  stiff- 
ened the  mental  fibre,  and  set  up  Duty  above  every 
personal  advantage.  If  the  sons  of  New  England  have 
any  one  great  heritage,  it  is  this. 

Along  with  grave  qualities  there  were  some  which 
were  provincial  and  parochial,  —  whimseys  that  were  as 
firmly  rooted  as  the  others  ;  so  that  the  Quabbin  man 


CHARACTER  103 

was  an  odd  bundle  of  high  convictions,  with  grotesque 
notions  and  prejudices' 

The  Ouabbin  man  of  the  better  sort  believed  the 
Bible  to  be  inspired,  in  mass  and  in  detail,  from  Gene- 
sis to  Revelation  ;  that  Unitarianism  and  Universalism 
were  doctrines  of  devils ;  that  Methodists  and  Baptists 
were  well-meaning  people,  but  blown  about  by  winds  of 
doctrine  ;  that  the  cross  was  a  symbol  of  popery,  and 
Christmas  a  superstitious  observance ;  that  the  Feder- 
alists inherited  the  wisdom  and  virtues  of  Washington, 
and  that  John  Adams  and  his  son  John  Quincy  were 
his  worthy  successors  ;  that  Jefferson  was  the  father  of 
infidelity,  and  that,  if  every  Democrat  was  not  a  profane 
rascal,  at  least  every  profane  rascal  was  a  Democrat ; 
that  Daniel  Webster  was  the  greatest  orator  of  any  age 
C'  He  kin  talk,  this  Daniel  Webster ;  he  kin  talk,  I  tell 
ycou ;  he  kin ")  ;  that  Napoleon  Bonaparte  was  ex- 
pressly pointed  out  (by  a  calculation  of  heads  and 
horns)  as  a  monster  of  some  kind  in  the  Apocalypse  ; 
that  Dr.  Grandley  was  the  greatest  surgeon  and  physi- 
cian living ;  that  in  a  great  city  there  were  few  honest 
men  and  fewer  virtuous  women  (to  say  that  a  woman 
had  ''city  ways  "  was  to  intimate  something  greatly  to 
her  discredit)  ;  that  any  man  possessed  of  more  than 
twenty  thousand  dollars  had  come  by  it  dishonestly 
C  It  stands  to  reason  that  he  couldn't  'ev  made  it  by 
his  own  hands  ;  an',  ef  other  folks  aimed  it,  it  ain't 
hisn.  Ef  he's  ben  honest,  an'  gi'n  all  their  deau,  he 
couldn't  hev  no  sech  pile  o'  money  ")  ;  that  a  bank  was 
a  kind  of  thing  he  did  not  understand  ("  Ef  it  lends 
money  at  six  per  cent,  how  du  the  sheerholders  git 
twelve?  that's  what  I  sh'd  like  terknow");  that  the 
young  men   to   be  helped  in   "gittjn'  college  larnin' '* 


I04  QUABBTN 

were  those  intending  to  preach  the  g'ospol  ("  Ez  fer 
helpin'  on  young  lawyers,  let  Satan  take  care  of  his 
own!");  that  a  lawyer  was  necessarily  a  dissembler 
and  cheat  ;  that  "  old-fashioned  schoolin'  "  was  good 
enough  ;  that  a  man  who  wore  a  beard  was  a  Jew,  or  a 
dirty  fellow,  or  both  ;  that  kid  gloves  were  worn  only 
by  dandies  ('*  Ef  it's  cold,  a  good  woollen  mitten's  good 
enough  fer  ;;/r /");  that  the  tune  "China"  ("Why  do 
we  mourn  departing  friends  ?  ")  was  divinely  appointed 
to  be  sung  at  funerals,  and  that  "  Coronation  "  ("  All 
hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name  ")  will  be  sung  in  heaven ; 
that  the  good  old  days  of  samp,  hulled  corn,  bean 
porridge,  barrelled  apple-sauce,  apprenticeship,  honest 
work,  and  homespun  clothes  were  gone,  never  to  return. 
In  natural  philosophy,  the  things  he  did  not  know,  and 
those  he  thought  he  knew,  but  were  "not  so,"  were  so 
many  that  to  set  him  right  would  have  required  an 
enlarged  and  annotated  edition  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne 
on  "Vulgar  Errors."  It  must  (regretfully)  be  added 
that  his  necessary  economy  too  frequently  trenched  upon 
sordid  meanness. 

Two  co-existing  institutions,  the  church  and  the 
town-meeting,  were  shaping  character  and  creating  the 
body  politic,  and  were,  to  some  extent,  at  cross  pur- 
poses. For  a  long  time  the  church  had  the  upper 
hand,  but,  meanwhile,  political  education  was  going  on 
by  means  of  the  town-meeting.  When  the  authority 
of  the  church  in  civil  affairs  came  to  an  end,  the  people 
were  ready  to  govern  themselves.  It  is  freely  admitted 
that  theocratic  rule  put  back  civilization  and  an  enlight- 
ened Christianity  for  more  than  a  century,  but  the  time 
was  not  wholly  lost.     In  Great   Britain  there  was  no 


CHARACTER  105 

Puritan  rule, — although  Scotland  had  something  very 
much  like  it,  —  but  there  were  no  town-meetings,  and 
therefore  no  general  and  efficient  political  education. 
Will  it  be  pretended  that  artisans  and  agricultural 
laborers  in  Great  Britain  are  to  be  compared  in  any 
respect  with  mechanics  and  farmers  in  New  England  ? 
If  Parliament  had  set  up  ''Village  Councils  "  two  and  a 
half  centuries  ago,  the  case  might  have  been  dif- 
ferent. 

The  institutions  of  New  England  have  been  often 
and  ably  discussed,  and  it  would  be  quite  beyond  the 
purpose  of  this  book  to  dwell  upon  their  history  or  de- 
velopment ;  we  are  looking  more  at  concrete  results 
than  abstract  theories.  And  it  does  not  matter  o:reatlv, 
—  from  Ouabbin's  point  of  view, — wdiether  those  insti- 
tutions were  developed  from  British  models  and  ideas, 
as  has  been  generally  held,  or  wiiether  they  were 
brought  by  the  Pilgrims  from  Holland,  as  has  been 
recently  argued  by  an  able  and  learned  writer.^  The 
differences  between  the  population  of  a  typical  English 
county  and  that  of  a  group  of  Massachusetts  towns 
covering  a  similar  space  are  striking  enough  ;  whether 
those  differences  are  mainly  the  results  of  evolution 
under  new  conditions,  or  have  sprung  from  the  experi- 
ence gained  by  our  ancestors  in  another  land,  is  not 
important  in  this  simple  sketch. 

As  to  the  character  of  the  New  England  people,  he 
who  knows  its  complexities  best  will  be  most  chary  in 
generalization.  It  was  reserved  for  a  clever  story-writer 
from  abroad  to  give  an  authoritative  exposition  after  a 
residence    of   a  few   weeks.     The    subject    which    had 

1  "The  Puritan  in  Holland,  England,  and  .America,"'  by  Douglas  Campbell, 


I06  QUABBIN 

tasked  the  powers  of  life-long  observers  like  Haw- 
thorne, Mrs.  Stowe,  Lowell,  and  Holmes,  appears  to 
have  been  a  mere  trifle  to  the  oracular  young  man  from 
India.  British  editors  and  readers  who  have  exulted  in 
his  swift  and  condign  judgment  are  to  be  congratu- 
lated. "- 


THE   QUILTIN'  10/ 


CHAPTER   XII 

THE    QUILTIN' 

Co-operation  is  a  modern  word,  but  the  thing  is  as 
old  as  civilization.  The  benefit  of  association  is  at  once 
recognized  in  a  new  country,  where  work  has  to  be  done 
for  which  the  labor  of  one  person,  or  of  a  family,  would 
not  suffice.  In  felling  trees,  co-operation  takes  the 
form  of  log-rolling,  in  which  the  neighborhood  joins  ; 
and  one  man's  land  having  been  cleared,  he  in  turn 
assists  all  who  have  worked  for  him. 

The  metaphorical  use  of  log-rolling  in  politics  is 
obvious,  but  it  is  often  employed  in  British  news- 
papers with  vague  knowledge  of  its  meaning.^ 

Co-operation  among  the  women  of  Ouabbin  took  the 
form  of  an  afternoon  quilting  followed  by  tea.  Before 
woven  white  coverlets  were  introduced,  and  while 
woollen  blankets  were  dear,  a  part  of  the  bed  covers 
were   "  quilts." 

A  quilt  was  made  by  placing  a  layer  of  soft  cotton 
wadding  between  two  sheets  of  cloth  ;  an  upper  one 
with    designs    in    color,   and  an  under  one  as  a  lining. 

1  So  in  Great  Britain  one  reads  of  "  Bunkum  "  instead  of  "  Buncombe,"  the 
name  of  the  county  in  North  Carolina  where  lived  the  "spread-eagle"  orator,  for 
whose  flights  the  term  was  invented.  So,  one  reads  of  "  jerrymander  "  instead 
of  "  Gerrymander,"  the  editor  being  ignorant  that  tlie  word  was  derived  from  the 
name  of  Elbridge  Gerry  (G  hard)  whose  device  for  a  tricky  division  of  the  State 
into  electoral  districts  has  given  him  an  unenviable  immortality.  But  to  sju'll  his 
name,  and  he  a  governor  of  Massachusetts,  with  a  littley  is  r.itlier  loo  nuich  I 


I08  QUABBI.X 

The  stitching,  which  went  through  and  attached  the 
two  surfaces,  was  done  in  an  elaborate  pattern  of 
needlework.  The  face  of  the  quilt  was  composed  of 
pieces  of  printed  cotton  (calico)  of  all  colors  (ara- 
besques or  flowers,  or  what  not)  cut  in  squares,  loz- 
enges, rhomboids,  hexagons,  and  the  like,  and  arranged 
and  sewed  together  in  a  way  to  make  a  symmetrical 
pattern,  or  group  of  patterns,  as  to  form,  and  a  regular 
distribution  of  colors. 

But  artistic  perception,  and  the  power  of  creating 
pleasing  effects  with  heterogeneous  materials,  are  not 
given  to  all ;  and  some  quilts  were  as  tawdry  and  gro- 
tesque as  the  edifices  that  children  build  with  colored 
blocks.  The  choice  of  materials  was  generally  limited 
to  the  skirts  of  the  calico  gowns  worn  by  the  female 
members  of  the  family  since  the  last  quilting. 

Laying  out  the  plan,  and  sewing  together  the  pieces, 
occupied  the  w^omen  and  children  in  odd  hours  for 
months.  When  the  patchwork  was  completed,  it  was 
laid  upon  the  destined  lining,  with  sheets  of  wadding 
between,  and  the  combined  edges  were  basted.  Long 
bars  of  wood  —  the  ''quiltin'  frame"  —  were  placed  at 
the  four  sides  ;  the  quilt  was  attached  to  the  bars  by 
stout  thread,  and  the  bars  fastened  at  the  corners  with 
listing  ;  then  the  whole  was  raised  upon  the  backs  of 
chairs,  one  at  each  corner,  to  serve  as  trestles. 

Around  the  quilt,  so  stretched  out  at  a  convenient 
height,  a  dozen  (more  or  less)  might  be  at  w^ork,  seated 
at  the  four  sides,  all  following  in  their  stitching  the  pat- 
tern laid  down.  The  pattern  was  fanciful,  —  in  zig- 
zags, parallels,  octagons,  or  concentric  circles. 

When  the  width  of  a  foot  was  completed  on  any 
side,  so  much  of  the  quilt  was  rolled   upon  the  bar ; 


THE   QUILTIN'  109 

and  as  the  work  went   on,  the  visible  part  of  the  quilt 
diminished,  like  Balzac's  Peau  de  CJiagrin. 

A  more  favorable  arrangement  for  a  social  afternoon 
could  hardly  be  imagined.  The  work  demanded  no 
thought  on  the  part  of  those  who  were  familiar  with  it ; 
and  the  women,  all  facing  inward  as  at  a  square  tabic, 
and  all  in  best  gowns,  cambric  collars,  and  lace  caps, 
could  gossip  to  their  hearts'  content. 

Mrs.  Kempton  had  invited  some  neighbors  to  a  quilt- 
ing, and,  together,  there  was  an  even  dozen  of  them. 
Mrs.  Kempton  was  tall,  slender,  and  dark,  and  had  fine, 
expressive  eyes.  She  was  quick  in  speech,  sensitive, 
and  at  times  appeared  restless.  She  was  oppressed  by 
the  dead  weight  of  the  moral  atmosphere  of  Ouabbin. 
The  rule  of  society  was  absolute.  There  were  only 
two  sets, — saints  and  sinners.  For  a  church-member 
there  was  an  endless  number  of  unwritten  laws,  not  to 
be  transgressed.  Mrs.  Kempton  did  not  transgress, 
but  seemed  always  on  the  verge  of  doing  it.  She  was 
lilce  a  dancer  in  leaden  shoes,  a  tomboy  in  a  nunnery ; 
and  sometimes  she  feared  she  was  an  intruder  in  the 
church,  so  little  sympathy  she  felt  for  the  unnatural 
gloom  that  overshadowed  everybody.  A  better-hearted 
or  more  exemplary  woman  never  existed  ;  but  she  had 
lively  faculties,  a  sense  of  the  ridiculous,  and  longed 
now  and  then  for  a  frolic. 

There  is  a  kind  of  freemasonry  between  those  who 
find  society  a  tyranny,  and  a  village  a  prison.  Those 
who  wear  the  invisible  ball-and-chain  know  each  other. 
Three  of  Mrs,  Kempton's  friends  shared,  in  different 
degrees,  her  qualities  and  sympathies,  —  iMrs.  Stone,  the 
carpenter's  wife  ;  Mrs.  iHale,  whose  husband  owned  the 
saw-mill  ;  and  Almira  Marble,  spinster.  Whenever 
these  women  met  there  was  sure  to  be  a  merrv  time. 


I  lO  QUABBIN 

The  quilting-frame  so  nearly  filled  the  sitting-room 
that  there  was  little  space  behind  the  chairs.  The  rays 
of  the  September  sun  streamed  into  the  west  window, 
and  without  the  air  was  filled  with  reflections  of  yellow 
and  crimson  from  the  wealth  of  maple  leaves  about  the 
house. 

Among  the  women  there  had  been  the  usual  compli- 
mentary scrutiny  of  caps  and  ribbons,  and  the  exchange 
of  information  in  regard  to  measles  and  whooping- 
cough  ;  and,  these  topics  having  been  exhausted,  there 
was  a  pause. 

After  the  needles  had  gleamed  a  while  in  silence, 
Mrs.  Fenton,  a  stout  and  dull-looking  woman,  broke  out 
with  :  — 

"•  Did  any  o'  yeou  hear  'bout  the  bear  ? "  ^ 

Several,  speaking  at  once,  said,  "  Where  ?  "  *'  When 
was  it  ? "     *'  Whose  bear  t  " 

"Why,"  replied  Mrs.  Fenton,  "'twas  a  black  bear, 
up'n  Cap'n  Davis's  pastur',  on  the  nor' west  hill,  week 
'fore  last." 

Said  Mrs.  Stone,  "Why,  Mis'  Fenton,  there  ain't  ben 
a  bear  in  nor  abaout  Ouabbin  for  forty  year!  There's 
bears  up'n  Vermont,  —  my  mother  shot  one  't  her  back 
door,  —  but  they  don't  come  daown  here." 

"The  Rickett  childern  've  seen  'im,  just  afore  dusk," 
replied  Mrs.  Fenton. 

^'  Now  we  kiiozv  'taint  trew,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"  The  Rickett  childern  can't  tell  the  truth  ef  they 
would,"  said  Miss  Marble. 

"And  their  parents  wouldn't  ef  they  could,"  added 
Mrs.  Hale. 

1  Quabbin  women,  with  very  few  exceptions,  spoke  in  dialect,  but  one  never 
heard  "  bear  "  pronounced  "  bar."   That  is  a  Western  usage. 


THE  QUILTIN'  III 

"What  was  the  bear  doin'  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Stone. 

"They  thought  he  was  braowsin'  on  the  berries." 

"  Most  likely 'twas  the  minister  out  a-blueberrin'  in 
his  black  gown,"  suggested  Mrs.  Kempton. 

"Couldn't  tell  him  f'm  a  bear  —  in  the  dark,"  said 
Mrs.  Stone,  laughing. 

"  Yeou  sh'd  be  'shamed  ter  liken  the  minister  tu  a 
bear,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton,  while  a  sudden  cloud  of  solem- 
nity settled  upon  her  face. 

"P'r'aps  'twas  Sat'n  a-praowlin'  raound,"  said  old  Mrs. 
Aldrich,  with  a  shiver. 

"  O  pshaw  !  "  said  several  voices  at  once. 

"  Wal,  yeou  may  sJiaivs  much  ez  yeou  please,"  said 
Mrs.  Aldrich  ;  "  but  my  granny  told  me  that  when  she 
was  a  gal  in  Brookfield,  she  was  a-ridin'  hossback  over 
ter  the  rorth  perrish  of  a  dark  night,  an'  she  see  a  bear 
runnin'   long  side  of  her  in  the  road  "  — 

Here  she  was  interrupted  by  two  voices  :  — 

"  Wsl,  there  ivcrc  bears  in  that  day." 

"  Ef  'twas  dark,  heow  did  she  know  'twan't  a  dog }  " 

"Jest  you  hark,"  said  Mrs.  Aldrich.  "  She  went  on, 
a-whippin'  up  her  boss,  an'  arter  a  while  she  felt  rather 
queer,  an'  her  flesh  seemed  ter  creep  and  cringe,  kinder 
like  goose-flesh  ;  an'  sech  a  feelin'  at  the  pit  o'  her 
stummick !  An'  then  she  looked  behind  her.  She  /u^d 
ter  look  behind  her ;  she  couldn't  help  it.  An'  what 
d'ye  think  she  saw  ?  That  ere  bear  or  some  black 
critter  was  on  her  saddle-cloth,  a  sittin'  up  on  his  hind 
parts,  an'  his  black  nozzle  just  at  her  ear." 

"Did  he  say  anything  imperlite  .-* "  asked  l\Irs. 
Kempton  with  sweet  gravity. 

"  Naow,  yeou're  not  to  poke  fun,"  said  Mrs.  Aldrich, 
looking  over  her  spectacles.  "  Did  the  bear  S(7r  any- 
thing, indeed  !     T  wonder  at  veou,  I  du  !  " 


112  QUAD  BIN 

"  Wal,  the  horse  mightn't  've  liked  it,  unless  'twas  a 
very  little  bear,"  said  Mrs.  Hale. 

Mrs.  Aldrich  paid  no  attention  to  the  interruption, 
and  went  on:  ''She  jest  said  the  Lord's  Prayer,  and 
she  felt  the  eritter  tremble  ;  an'  when  she  come  ter  the 
words,  'Deliver  us  f'm  evil,'  it  jumped  off,  an'  run 
awav." 

"That  ought  to  be  in  a  Sunday-school  book,"  said 
Miss  Marble. 

"  Wal,"  said  Mrs.  Thurstin,  an  ally  of  Mrs.  Aldrich, 
"there's  strange  things  happen  in  this  world,  laaf  ez 
yeou  will.  Naow,  yeou  know  the  tahvern-keeper  died 
arter  he  was  kicked  by  a  boss.  Wal,  Mis'  Shumway, 
who's  a  woman  o'  trewth,  tol'  vie  thet  she  was  ther' 
washin'  an'  scrubbin',  an'  thet  an  ol'  clock  that  hedn't 
ben  runnin'  fer  a  year  suddenly  broke  out  a  strikin'. 
They  caoiinted,  an'  it  struck  forty-four  !  Jest  the  dyin' 
man's  acre." 

"  Was  it  the  clock's  strikin'  that  killed  the  man  .?  " 
asked  Mrs.  Hale  ;  "  I  thought  you  said  the  kick  of  the 
horse  killed  him." 

"  Wish  you  c'd  a  seen  Mis'  Shumway's  eyes  when 
she  told  me  the  story,"  continued  I\Irs.  Thurstin. 
"  They  stuck  aout  like  two  moons." 

"No  matter  'bout  her  eyes;  they  go  moonin'  easy," 
said  Mrs.  Stone.  "Somebody  who  had  eyes  should  a 
looked  arter  the  clock." 

"Yes,"  added  Miss  Marble,  "I've  heard  there  was 
a  clock  pedler  'bout  the  tavern  at  that  time,  and  he 
may  have  been  playin'   a  joke." 

"  But  haow  did  it  strike  forty-four,  Almiry  }  Tell  me 
that,''  said  Mrs.  Aldrich.  "  A  clock  ca?it  strike  more'n 
twelve  times.  'Twas  agin  nafer  for  it  to  strike  forty- 
four." 


THE   QUILT  IN'  II3 

"  Ef  the  wheels  air  wood,"  said  Mrs.  Stone,  *'a  man 
his  only  to  cut  off  some  of  the  little  teeth  or  cogs, 
an  1  then,  when  it  begins  strikin',  'twill  keep  on  till  it 
ru.is  down." 

"■  'Pears  Dr.  Grandley  couldn't  do  the  tahvern-kecper 
no  good,"  said  Mrs.  Fenton. 

'* 'Twas  because  bleedin'  couldn't  do  him  any  good," 
saiJ  Mrs.  Stone.  ''The  doctor's  as  handy  with  his 
lancet  ez  a  butcher.  Poor  Tirzy  Powers  !  I  sh'U 
never  git  over  her  death.  There  wasn't  nobody  like 
her.  To  think  of  her  bein'  in  a  pleurisy,  an'  bled  till 
she  couldn't  hold  up  her  head  nor  hand.  The  last 
tima  he  bled  her,  her  eyes  set  afore  he  could  git  the 
bandage  fastened  on  her  arm.  There'll  be  a  time  when 
doctors  won't  dew  so.  '  The  life  of  the  flesh  is  the 
blooJ,'  so  the  Bible  says,  an'  it  stands  ter  reason." 

"  Aour  doctors  don't  bleed,"  said  Mrs.  Pomroy. 
"  Do  :tor  Thomson  savs  ef  God  hed  meant  to  hev  blood 
takei  aout  o'  the  veins,  he'd  a  made  a  hole  and 
stopper." 

*'  No,  Mis'  Pomroy,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton,  "  Thomson- 
ians  don't  bleed,  but  they  dose  ye  with  lobelia  an' 
*  composition  '  tell  ye  hain't  any  stomachs  left.  Jest 
vou  keep  on,  an'  see  where  yeou  an'  yeour  child'en  '11 
be." 

"  O  '  Doctor  Salmon  hed  a  bad  ban'  to  du  up,"  inter- 
rupted Mrs.  Aldrich.  "  Ye  know  James  Johnson,  he 
that's  ben  away  to  sea  so  long.  Wal,  Josh  Wheldin 
'ad  a  sore  han',  an'  he  went  inter  the  store  t'other  day 
to  git  sunthin'  fer  it.  '  Show  me  yer  han',  says  John- 
son—  he  was  standin'  'hind  the  caounter,  the  side  nex' 
the  med'cines  —  so  Josh  he  drawed  off  his  mitt'n  an' 
stuck  out  his  ban'      An'  then  Johnson  he  reached  fer 


1 14  QUABBIN 

a  bottle,  and  poured  on  thet  sore  han' — what  d'ye 
think?  —  aqiiy  fortis !  Why  it  smoked,  and  went  burnin' 
right  inter  the  flesh.  They  was  goin'  to  take  him  up, 
—  'sault  and  battry  they  call  it,  —  but  he  pertended  he'd 
took  the  wrong  bottle  by  mistake,  an'  they  didn't  du 
nothin'  tu  him.  P'r'aps  he  did,  but  he's  a  mean,  bad. 
natered  feller." 

"  What  could  Doctor  Salmon  du  for  sech  a  hand  as 
that  .'*  "  asked  a  neighbor. 

''  Grease  it,  I  s'pose,"  said  Mrs.  Aldrich. 

"  He  ain't  so  good's  an  old  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Stone. 
''The  child'n  all  die  where  he  goes,  jest  as  ef  his 
shadder  killed  'em." 

"  Wal,  this  is  gettin'  grisly,"  said  Mrs.  Kempton. 
"  Fust  we  had  bears,  then  the  Evil  One,  then  a  clock 
bewitched,  then  blood-lettin',  and  then  aqua  fortis. 
Ain't  ther'  somethin'  cheerful  }  Sometimes  I  think 
Ouabbin  only  needs  an  iron  door  to  be  a  tomb." 

"There's  the  Widder  Carter,  I  mean  Mis'  Spauld- 
in',"  said  Mrs.  Hale.  "  Slie  looks  smilin'  ;  an'  i\Ir. 
Spauldin'  hez  straightened  up  amazin'." 

"  Speakin'  of  weddin's,"  said  the  spinster,  '*  David 
Ramsay — the  one  that  calc'lates  the  eclipse  —  is  goin' 
to  be  married,  an'  Joe  Chandler  is  goin'  to  lend  him  his 
horse  an'  buggy  fer  his  weddin'  tower." 

"  Another  chance  lost  fer  you,  Almiry,"  said  Mrs. 
Kempton. 

"  My  chance  '11  keep,"  replied  the  old  maid.  "  I'm 
waitin'  fer  a  widower.  An'  have  ye  heard  that  Dr. 
Northam  is  makin'  up  ter  one  of  the  Spauldin'  girls  ? 
I  didn't  hear  which,  but  I  think  it's  Prudence." 

"Whichever  it  is,"  said  Mrs.  Stone,  "it'll  be  pru- 
dence fer  him,  fer  they'll  git  a  heap  o'  money,  each  one 
on    cm. 


THE   QUILTIN'  II5 

At  this  point  there  was  heard  without,  gradually 
coming  nearer,  the  long,  pei iodic  wail  of  a  child  that 
had  been  crying,  and  appeared  to  be  tired  of  it,  but 
did  not  know  whether  it  were  better  to  stop  altogether, 
or  keep  on  at  intervals. 

The  women  looked  from  one  to  another  with  mute 
interrogation,  but  in  a  moment  INIrs.  Fenton's  agitated 
face  showed  that  she  recognized  the  wailing  voice. 
She  rose  and  squeezed  her  bulky  person  behind  the 
workers'  chairs,  on  her  way  to  the  door  ;  but  before 
she  reached  it,  the  little  sufferer  appeared,  and  the 
sight  of  him  was  enough  to  make  a  sensitive  woman 
qualmish.  Mrs.  Fenton  applied  her  handkerchief  to 
his  nose,  but,  alas !  that  was  a  trifle  ;  face,  hands,  hair, 
and  clothing,  made  an  image  of  neglect. 

When  she  found  breath  she  exclaimed,  *'  Lijah,  how 
come  you  here  .''  Who  told  you  to  come  here  }  "  The 
boy's  inarticulate  blubbering  continued;  but  at  length 
he  answered,  with  many  sobs  and  heavings  of  the  chest, 
'*  Dad  sent  me  out  ter  play,  but  ther'  wan't  anybody  to 
play  with." 

"  What  was  your  dad  doin'  thet  he  didn't  let  you  stay 
in  the  haouse } " 

"  He's  drinkin'  pepper  'n  cider.  Then  I  went  ter 
gran'ther's,  an'  Aunt  Lucy  said  I  must  go  'way  home. 
So  I  went,  an'  dad  druve  me  off  agin.  Then  I  went 
ter  Mis'  Stone's,  an'  ther'  wan't  anybody  ter  hum ;  an' 
so  I  come  here,  fer  I  vuist  be  somcwJici'  '' 

The  last  phrase  was  uttered  in  a  loud  tone  of  lamen- 
tation that  produced,  on  the  part  of  listening  mothers, 
first  a  titter,  then  a  giggle,  and  then  an  honest  burst 
of  laughter.  They  had  not  read  '*  La  Rochefoucault  " 
in  Ouabbin,  but  it  was  impossible  not  to  laugh   at  the 


Tl6  QUABBIIV 

sorrows  of  a  lonesome,  untidy  boy,  and  especially  at 
the  incontestable  position  he  laid  down,  that  he  "  must 
be  somewhere." 

The  hostess  tried  to  make  a  diversion  by  proposing  to 
take  the  boy  into  the  next  room,  and  give  him  a  piece  of 
cake  ;  but  Mrs.  Fcnton,  a  little  ruffled  by  the  laughter, 
said  she  thoufrht  she  would  take  him  home.  But  Mrs. 
Kempton  said  that  everything  was  ready,  and  she 
would  not  hear  of  any  one  going  away  before  tea.  In 
the  end,  Mrs.  Fenton  remained,  and  the  boy  as  well. 

In  the  opinion  of  Ouabbin,  Mrs.  Kempton's  spreads 
were  worthy  of  all  superlatives.  The  tea,  pale  in  color, 
but  really  strong,  was  served  in  delicate  old  china,  with 
flesh-colored  figures ;  and  the  fragrance  of  so  many 
cups  filled  the  room. 

There  was  bread  and  butter,  hot  biscuits  (which  were 
not  bis  cult  at  all),  waffles,  peach  preserves,  apple- 
and-quince  sauce,  doughnuts,  mince-pie,  custard-pie, 
fruit-cake,  sponge-cake,  and  mellow  sage  cheese.  The 
tablecloth  was  like  satiny  snow.  Everything  was  best 
and  daintiest.  The  simple  folk  praised  everything. 
The  bread  was  light  and  '' clean-tasted  ;"■  the  bis- 
cuits were  "jest  riz  enough;"  the  waffles  ''done  to  a 
turn  'thout  burnin'."  As  for  the  pies,  —  well,  'twas  of 
no  use.  '^  SccJi  a  mince-pie!  Why  it's  jest  beauti- 
ful !  "  with  a  strong  nasal  hum  on  the  first  syllable, 
vibcantifid. 

Whoever  has  not  eaten  mince-pie  in  some  generous 
Yankee  house,  wherein  the  tradition  is  several  genera- 
tions old,  has  no  right  to  an  opinion  ;  and  whoever 
dares  to  call  it  vulgar,  mav  he  live  and  die  unblessed 
with  the  incommunicable  flavor  !  Dyspepsia  }  Per- 
haps ;  but  for  a  mince-pie  such  as  one  remembers,  ay, 


THE    QUILTIN'  11/ 

and  for  other  delectable  dainties  like  those  on  Mrs. 
Kempton's  table,  the  fiend  miL;ht  do  his  worst. 

The  smal  Fenton  ate  his  generous  slice  of  cake, 
then  stole  to  the  back  of  his  mother's  chair,  and  from 
time  to  time  received  divers  sweet  morsels.  By  and 
by,  what  with  the  original  layer  of  dirt,  the  channels  of 
tears,  and  the  invasion  of  mucous  fluids,  and  with  the 
smear  of  sugary  lollipops,  the  boy's  face  would  have 
been  a  model  for  -^  genre  painter.  Art  might  copy,  but 
not  surpass.  And  then  he  was  the  author  of  a  pro- 
found philosophic  saying. 

Then  Mrs.  Aldrich  found  it  was  ''  gittin'  late,"  and, 
after  some  honest  compliments,  went  for  her  "  things." 
Mrs.  Fenton  and  her  son  followed,  the  latter  not  much 
regretted.  Soon  all  had  departed  except  the  intimates, 
Mrs.  Stone,  Mrs.  Hale,  and  Miss  ^larble. 

''  Now  sit  down,  girls,''  said  ]\Irs.  Kempton,  with  a 
burst  of  gay  humor.  ''  Sit  down  ;  we'll  have  some 
more  tea,  some  fresh  cups,  and  a  good,  old-fashioned 
time."     And  they  did. 


Il8  QUAE  BIN 


CHAPTER   XIII 

WORKING    THE    ROADS 

Those  who  are  familiar  with  the  excellent  roads  in 
Eastern  Massachusetts  can  have  little  idea  of  the 
conditions  of  travel  sixty  years  ago  in  the  poorer  dis- 
tricts of  the  western  part  of  the  State.  The  original 
settlers  generally  selected  high  ground  for  the  centre 
of  a  town,  to  prevent  being  surprised  by  Indians,  and 
therefore  most  of  the  old  routes  are  hilly. 

Quabbin,  a  newer  town,  was  built  in  a  valley,  but  its 
roads  furnished  all  the  facilities  for  discomfort.  There 
were  within  its  limits  no  high  hills  to  be  crossed,  but, 
to  make  up  for  their  absence,  plenty  of  sharp  "pitches," 
with  sinuosities  and  angles  favorable  to  overturns,  and 
with  projecting  points  and  edges  of  underlying  ledges, 
so  as  to  sfive  a  series  of  shocks  to  each  Vehicle.  Other 
hill-roads  were  strewn  with  loose  stones  of  assorted 
sizes,  over  which  horses  stumbled  and  w^agons  rattled. 
One  of  these  was  in  the  centre  of  the  tow^n  ;  a  short 
descent,  but  rough  as  the  moraine  of  a  glacier  ;  and  a 
man  who  drove  down  toward  the  tavern  at  a  trot  was 
tossed  about  as  if  he  were  in  a  boat  on  breakers. 
Others  had  a  bed  of  deep  clay,  into  which  in  rainy 
weather  the  wheels  sank  almost  to  the  hubs.  Some  of 
the  roads  over  pine  plains  and  through  valleys  had  a 
covering  of  sand,  which,  while  wet,  was  impacted  and 


WORKING    THE   ROADS  I  19 

smooth,  but  in  dry  weather  was  in  yellowish  granules, 
through  which  the  wagon-wheels  squealed  in  making 
their  furrows. 

To  prevent  a  hill-road  from  being  washed  in  time  of 
heavy  rain,  it  was  the  custom  to  make  across  it,  at  in- 
tervals, a  series  of  barriers  or  dams  that  would  turn  off 
any  sudden  current.  These  dams,  built  obliquely,  gave 
an  emphatic  "  jounce  "  and  a  twist  to  a  wagon  descend- 
ing, —  a  jounce  of  which  the  driver  had  his  share  in  a 
jerk  that  threatened  to  dislocate  his  neck.  Frcm  the 
involuntary  motion  of  the  head  in  going  over  these 
dams,  they  were  popularly  known  as  ''thank'ee  ma'ams," 
although  the  motion  was  scarcely  conducive  to  a 
grateful  state  of  mind. 

To  adorn  the  steep  hill-roads  with  these  ingenious 
obstructions,  to  clear  out  the  rude  gutters,  and  to 
cover  hollows  and  rutted  places  with  turf,  loose  soil, 
and  roots  of  bushes,  dug  at  random  from  the  bank,  so 
as  to  make  the  ''  repaired  "  section  like  a  newly  ploughed 
field,  was  the  total  of  road-making  science  in  that  day. 

County  commissioners  had  paramount  authoiity,  in 
regard  to  long  routes  (county  roads),  but  made  their 
authority  felt  less  in  former  times  than  now.  Grading 
and  macadamizing  were  unknown,  and  are  still  rare  in 
Ouabbin  and  in  its  region.  Neighborhood  roads  were 
laid  out,  repaired,  or  discontinued  by  each  town  within 
its  limits. 

Once  or  twice  a  year  the  whole  male  populat'on  was 
called  out  to  work  the  roads.  If  any  one  so  chose, 
he  commuted  the  service  by  a  payment  in  money. 
Notice  was  given  bv  the  highway  surveyors  for  the 
several  districts  (officers  chosen  at  the  annual  town 
meeting),  and  the  people  met  at  the   places  designated, 


I20  QUABBIN 

to  work  under  direction.  A  poor  man  took  a  hoe  or 
shovel,  a  farmer  his  oxen,  with  plough  or  cart,  accord- 
ing to  need.  The  surveyors  adjusted  the  corvee  as  best 
they  could,  according  to  the  ability  of  each  one  liable. 
The  surveyors  were  not  paid,  and  they  labored  with  the 
others  ;  still,  the  office  was  sought  for,  because  the 
man  in  authority  would  be  able  to  keep  the  road  near 
his  house  in  fair  condition,  and  because  he  would 
**  have  the  say  "  as  to  when  the  work  was  to  be  done, 
and  could  appoint  days  that  would  be  convenient  for 
hini.  In  winter,  after  a  heavy  fall  of  snow,  the  roads 
were  "broken  out"  by  the  people,  under  the  direction 
of  the  district  surveyors. 

Working  parties  began  on  the  part  of  the  road  near- 
est the  centre,  and  proceeded  outward,  making  repairs 
as  they  went,  until  they  reached  the  boundary.  Often 
they  met  there  a  similar  party  from  the  adjoining  town  ; 
and  then  at  luncheon  time  there  were  jumping-matches, 
back-hugs,  pulling  the  stick,  tugs-of-war,  and  other 
athletic  games,  besides  the  customary  banter  and  chaff. 

One  day,  by  chance,  the  Ouabbin  men,  working 
southward,  came  in  sight  of  a  party  belonging  to  Ware, 
and,  as  there  were  various  old  scores  to  be  settled  be- 
tween the  respective  tgwns'  champions,  the  surveyors 
in  charge  on  either  side  got  very  little' more  work  done 
that  day.  The  two  parties  differed  little  in  appearance. 
Their  clothes  were  mostly  of  an  indescribable  neutral 
tint  ;  their  heaw  boots  were  coated  with  mud,  their 
hats  without  shape,  and  their  hair  often  straggling  and 
untidy.  But  w^hat  was  specially  characteristic  of  the 
people  of  the  time,  was  a  certain  sheepish  air,  and  a 
heavy,  awkward  gait.  It  was  necessary  to  see  the  rus- 
tic Yankee  in  action  to  know  that  he  could  be  viva- 
cious and  encrcretic. 


WORKING    THE  ROADS  121 

After  some  preliminaries  the  distances  were  paced 
off,  and  there  were  races  of  one  hundred  and  two  hun- 
dred yards,  in  which  the  honors  were  fairly  divided. 
At  the  high  standing-jump  Quabbin  won.  At  the  tug- 
of-war  Ware  won.  At  pulling  the  stick  victory  came 
to  Quabbin.  This  was  the  crucial  test  of  power  and 
endurance.  The  two  antagonists  sat  on  the  ground 
facing  each  other,  their  legs  extended  so  that  the  soles 
of  each  were  squarely  against  those  of  his  adversary. 
A  smooth,  round  stick,  some  two  or  three  feet  in  length, 
held  transversely,  was  grasped  by  both,  and  at  the 
word,  each  endeavored  to  pull  the  other  enough  to  lift 
him  from  the  ground.  It  was  a  tremendous  struggle, 
but  without  visible  sign,  except  in  the  agonized  strain 
of  the  muscles  of  face  and  neck.  Often  it  was  a  draw, 
neither  being  able  to  raise  the  other.  Whoever  pulled 
spasmodically  was  pretty  sure  to  be  beaten  ;  it  was  the 
long,  steady  pull  that  succeeded.  The  success  of 
Quabbin  was  due  to  the  aid  of  a  stalwart  young  man, 
six  feet  at  least,  and  with  the  breast  and  shoulders  of 
Hercules,  newly  arrived  from  Vermont.  No  Ware 
man  could  hold  his  seat  against  him. 

This  was  before  the  temperance  reform  had  made 
much  headway,  and  at  the  luncheon  new  rum  was 
freely  circulated.  There  was  one  who  could  not  be 
called  anything  else  but  a  drunkard,  but  who,  in  spite 
of  his  well-known  failing,  was  regarded  with  kindness, 
for  he  was  good-natured,  lively,  sensible,  and  often 
witty.  In  the  early  stages  of  exaltation  he  was  the 
centre  of  merriment.  He  was  doing  service  that  dav 
in  place  of  one  Crombie,  who  had  the  reputation  of 
being  *'  closer'n  the  bark  tu  a  tree."  Poor  Dick  had 
been  furnished  with  lunclieon  by  his  cmplox'ci",   and    he 


122  QUABBIN 

opene  1  the  parcel.  There  was  a  doughnut  (''nntcake" 
they  called  it),  a  hunch  of  skim-milk  cheese,  and  a  pair 
of  slices  of  rye-bread  and  butter.  The  doughnut  was 
tough,  the  cheese  like  horn,  and  as  for  butter,  one 
never  saw  it  so  thinly  spread.  "  Wal,"  said  Dick, 
"  Mis'  Crombie's  got  ter  be  talked  tu.  I  k'n  munch  the 
nutcake,  I  guess,  an'  p'r'aps  worry  off  a  bit  o'  thet 
chejse-rine,  but  I  wish  she  wouldn't  cut  my  bread  with 
a  greasy  knife."  ^ 

A  Ware  man,  wishing  to  hear  Dick  talk,  asked  him 
how  Mr.  Crombie,  his  employer,  liked  being  a  director 
of  the  bank  } 

''Wal,"  said  Dick,  "when  I  went  ter  school,  the  dic- 
tionary said  a  d'rector  is  one  who  d'rects,  an'  that  ain't 
the  case  'ith  Bije  Crombie.  He  come  home  t'other  day 
f'm  d'rectors'  meetin'  ez  praoud's  a  turkey  gobbler,  but 
tried  to  keep  it  all  inside.  Ye  understand,  nobody  f'm 
Ouabbin,  that  I  ever  heered  on,  was  a  bank  d'rector 
before.  I  see  he  wanted  me  to  ask  him  abaout  it,  so  I 
said,  '  Mr.  Crombie,  I  s'pose  yeou  see  an'  handled  a  lot 
o'  gold  an'  silver  daown  ter  the  bank.  Du  they  keep 
the  coin  in  piles  like  grain,  an'  shovel  'em  in  an'  aout } 
Or  be  they  packed  in  bcrrils  V  —  '  No,'  said  he,  '  it's  in 
a  vault,  a  gret  square  hole  in  a  wall,  cased  'raound  'ith 
iron.  They  didn't  take  any  on  it  aout.'  —  'Oh,'  said  I, 
'  then  yeou  don't  know  haow  much  ther'  was  V  —  '  Yis,' 
said  he,  '  the  cashier  gin  us  the  statement.'  An'  aout  he 
takes  a  bit  o'  paper  an'  reads,  so  much  in  gold,  so  much 
in   silver,  so  much   in   bank-notes,   and   then   so   much 


1  Giraldiis  Canibrcnsis.  in  an  amusing  sketch  of  his  travels  in  Wales,  records 
a  similar  witticism  uttered  by  a  peasant,  and,  unconscious  of  his  own  absurdity, 
takes  the  trouble  to  demonstrate  tlie  fallacy  in  the  reasoning  by  gravely  citing  the 
rule  of  logic  that  is  infringed. 


WORKING    THE   ROADS  1 23 

assets.  'What  in  the  name  o'  natur'  is  assets?  Ther's 
loans  an  discounts,  with  big  figgers,  that  'pear  to  be  a 
leetle  mixed,  —  didn't  jest  know  haow  they  stood  ;  but 
assets  stumped  me  !  they  did,  I  vum.  Howsever,  they 
gin  us  a  dividend  o'  ten  per  cent,  an'  that's  sunthin. 
Ez  I  k'n  borry  all  the  money  I  sh'd  want  at  six,  I  don't 
see  haow  they  k'n  pay  us  ten.  But  I'm  glad  ter  git  the 
money.'  Naow,"  continued  Dick,  "  yeou  k'n  see  ef  a 
d'rector  is  one  who  d'rects." 

While  Dick  was  talkinsf  he  took  an  occasional  swisr 
from  his  bottle,  and  as  he  entered  with  a  keen  relish 
into  the  account  of  Mr.  Crombie's  views  of  finance,  his 
broad,  rosy  face  was  overspread  with  an  oozy  perspira- 
tion, and  gilded  with  a  perpetual  smile.  P'or  the  time 
he  was  happier  than  the  director. 

There  was  in  the  neighborhood  an  old  iron  cannon 
which  appeared  to  have  no  owner,  and  which  had  been 
alternately  captured  and  recaptured  by  the  young 
fellows  of  Ware  on  one  side,  and  those  of  Quabbin 
on  the  other,  for  many  years.  It  was  a  six-pounder, 
bearing  on  its  breech  a  crown  and  the  letters  G.  R.,  and 
was  deeply  pitted  with  rust.  It  was  used  for  firing 
salutes  on  the  Fourth  of  July,  and  for  that  purpose 
was  chained  upon  the  axle-tree  of  a  pair  of  cart-wheels. 
At  the  time  of  this  road-party  the  Ware  fellows  had  it, 
well  hidden  away  as  they  believed;  and,  naturally,  the 
Quabbin  boys  were  trying  to  ascertain  where  it  was,  that 
they  might  make  a  midnight  excursion  and  bring  it  off. 
When  the  new  rum  had  induced  confidence,  a  youth  of 
the  Quabbin  party  said  to  one  of  Ware,  — 

"  Ain't  ye  'fraid  that  ol'  cannon  '11  bust  ?  I  hear  yeou 
fellers  fired  it  all  day  las'  Fourth  o'  Jewly.  Some  of 
aour  folks  that  was  daown  tu  Bost'n  in  the  last  war,  an' 


124  QCJABBIN 

who  was  artill'ry  men,  an'  knows  'baout  guns,  says  the 
ol'  thing's  jest  rotten,  an'  '11  fly  ter  pieces  some  day, 
liive  a  mouldy  cheese."  The  youth  from  Ware  looked 
wary,  and  made  only  an  inarticulate  response.  The 
Quabbin  youth  went  on,  — 

"Th'  ol'  fellers  up  ter  Quabbin  says  they're  glad  it's 
away  ;  fer  ef  it  busts  it's  better  that  it  sh'd  kill  Ware 
boys  than  aourn." 

"They  are  very  kind,"  said  the  youth  of  Ware. 

"  I  was  on'y  wantin'  to  give  ye  a  friendly  warnin'," 
said  he  of  Quabbin. 

**  Much  obleeged,"  said  young  Ware. 

*'  Ef  yeou  folks  air  so  ferce  to  keep  it,"  said  young 
Quabbin,  looking  keenly  at  his  companion,  "  I  wonder 
yeou  let  it  lay  in  scch  an  open  place  as  Lyman's  ol' 
kerridge  haouse,  daown  on  the  Palmer  Road." 

**  Who  told  yeou  'twas  there  t "  was  the  sudden  and 
unguarded  response. 

"I  heered  it."  This  was  a  fib.  The  attempt  at  loca- 
tion was  only  a  bold  guess,  and  proved  true.  The 
Quabbin  boy  looked  indifferent,  offered  his  companion 
a  "nutcake,"  and  changed  the  subject. 

It  may  be  added  that  not  long  after  the  Quabbin 
boys  found  the  cannon,  and  drew  it  home,  seven  miles. 
On  the  next  Fourth  of  July  before  daylight  it  was 
dragged  through  the  thick  woods  to  the  top  of  Ram 
Mountain,  and  the  slumbering  village  was  roused  by 
the  unexpected  thunder  which  echoed  along  the  valley. 
The  following  year  the  Ware  boys  recovered  the  gun, 
but,  as  had  been  predicted,  it  burst,  —  fortunately  with- 
out loss  of  life. 

In  smaller  parties  there  was  talk  of  courtships,  of 
good  places  for  fishing,  of  the  price  of  mink  and  mus- 


WORKING    THE  ROADS  1 25 

quash  skins,  of  the  ministers,  singing-schools,  and 
other  matters  of  general  interest.  The  marriage  of 
David  Ramsay,  the  mathematician,  was  the  occasion 
of  some  amusing  talk,  as  he  was  over  fifty,  and  his 
wife  no  longer  young.  Dick,  who  was  not  vcjy  far 
advanced  in  inebriation,  told  of  a  conversation  he  heard 
between  the  bridegroom  on  his  return  from  the  wed- 
ding-trip, and  Joe  Chandler,  who  had  lent  him  his  team. 
Joe  asked  a  great  many  questions,  to  which  David  made 
few  answers.  At  last  he  said,  ''Well,  now,  David, 
what  d'ye  think  of  matrimony.'*  And  how  do  you  like 
your  new  condition?"  —  ''Wal,"  said  David,  "ez  to  mat- 
rimony, it  depends^  ye  see.  I  don't  know  nothin'  'bout 
widders,  —  but  merryin'  an'  ol'    maid's  a  putterin'  job." 

A  discussion  then  arose  over  the  pretensions  of  the 
two  towns.  Odds  were  offered  that  the  new  factory  vil- 
lage in  Ware  *'was  goin'  to  beat  Quabbin  all  holler." 
These  retorted  that  land  in  Ware  was  so  poor  that  "a 
rabbit  'd  shed  tears  ef  he  hed  to  git  his  livin'  off  'm  a 
ten-acre  lot  on  't."  Ware  replied  that  Quabbin  *' didn't 
raise  nothin'  but  polecats  an'  skunks'  cabbige." 

Then  rose  an  ancient  Quabbin  man  with  a  merry 
blue  eye,  and  delivered,  off-hand,  a  few  lines  of  rhyme, 
albeit  with  a  slight  impediment  in  his  speech. 

"  Dame  Nature  once,  in  makin"'  land, 
Hed  refuse  left  o'  stones  an"'  sand ; 
She  viewed  it  o^er,  then  flung  it  down 
Between  Coy's  Hill  an'  Belchcrtown. 
Said  she,  '  Yeou  paltry  stuff,  lie  there ! ' 
An'  made  a  town,  an'  called  it  Ware  ! " 

All  laughed,  the  Ware  men  included,  and  then  the 
rhymer   was   asked   to   sing.      lie  had   a  good   natural 


126  QUAE  BIN 

voice  (wholly  uncultivated),  abundant  feeling",  and  a 
surprising  memory.  It  was  said  that  he  knew  the 
words  and  music  of  above  two  hundred  songs.  When 
he  sang,  he  sang  "to  the  ends  of  his  fingers  and  toes." 
He  did  not  say  he  was  hoarse  or  out  of  practice,  nor 
wait  to  be  pressed,  but  in  compliance  with  general  de- 
sire sang  "Wolfe's  Adieu,"  a  sweet,  old-fashioned  song. 
The  taking  of  Quebec  was  not  then  so  very  long  ago. 
In  singing,  every  trace  of  his  impediment  disappeared. 

"  Too  soon,  my  dearest  Sophy, 

Pray  take  this  kind  adieu. 
Ah,  Love,  thy  pains  how  bitter. 

Thy  joys  how  short,  how  few  ! 
No  more  those  eyes  so  killing, 

That  tender  glance  repeat, 
With  bosom  gently  swelh'ng, 

Where  love's  soft  tumults  beat. 

Two  passions  strongly  pleading 

My  doleful  heart  divide  ; 
Lo,  there's  my  country  bleeding. 

And  here's  my  weeping  bride. 
But  no,  thy  faithful  lover 

Can  true  to  either  prove ; 
W^ar  fires  my  veins  all  over. 

While  every  pulse  beats  love. 

I  go  where  glory  leads  me. 

And  points  the  dangerous  way, 
Though  cowards  may  upbraid  me. 

Yet  honor  bids  obey. 
But  honor's  boasting  story 

T(jo  oft  thy  swain  doth  move, 
And  whispers  fame  with  glory. 

Ah,  what  is  that  to  love ! 


WORKING    THE  ROADS  12/ 

Then  think  where'er  I  wander, 

Through  parts  by  sea  or  land, 
No  distance  e'er  can  sunder 

What  mutual  love  hath  joined. 
Kind  heaven,  the  brave  requiting. 

Shall  safe  thy  swain  restore, 
And  raptures  crown  our  meeting 

Which  love  ne'er  felt  before."  ^ 

Hearty  applause  followed  ;  and  then  the  singer  gave 
the  ever  popular  "Vicar  of  Bray"  with  vigor  and 
humor. 

The  surveyors  at  length  induced  their  parties  to 
separate.  The  contingent  for  Ouabbin  started  home- 
ward, and,  as  they  went,  smoothed  with  hoe  or  shovel 
some  of  the  roughest  of  the  work  they  had  done.  It 
was  but  a  few  miles  they  had  to  walk,  and  all  got  home 
safely,  even  poor  Dick,  who  had  not  always  such  good 
luck. 

A  working  party  on  the  roads  was  never  a  just  repre- 
sentation of  the  people  of  Ouabbin.  Few  thriving 
mechanics,  and  none  of  the  men  of  influence,  did  per- 
sonal service,  because  it  was  better  to  pay  the  money 
than  lose  a  day.  The  force  which  a  surveyor  could 
muster  was  largely  made  up  of  hirelings,  and  of  those 
who  did  not  count  for  much  in  town  or  church  affairs  ; 
and  that  accounts  for  the  hilarity,  as  well  as  the  easy- 
going way  in  which  the  work  was  done. 

1  The  stanzas  are  written  from  memory,  after  sixty  years,  and  there  may  be 
some  errors. 


128  QUAE  BIN 


CHAPTER    XIV 

VILLAGE    AND    COUNTRY 

The  old  manners  naturally  survived  longest  in  dis- 
tricts remote  from  the  village  and  its  modernizing  in- 
fluences. This  fact  was  conspicuous  among  the  folk 
on  the  Great  Hill  at  the  north-west,  which  covered  parts 
of  the  territory  of  three  towns.  It  was  a  region  where 
what  was  oldest  and  rudest  in  English  rural  counties 
lived  on,  but  under  less  favorable  conditions  ;  for  the 
soil  was  rough  and  unproductive,  markets  were  dis- 
tant, and  money  exceedingly  scarce.  Probably  there 
could  not  be  seen  to-day  on  the  hilly  roads  a  barefooted 
driver  of  oxen,  or  a  farmer  in  blue  frock  going  to  mill  ; 
but  sixty  years  ago  woollen  frocks  in  winter,  and  flaxen 
or  tow  breeches  and  bare  feet  in  summer,  were  common 
enough.  The  difference  between  these  people  and 
those  in  the  social  centre  was  like  a  gulf  between  cen- 
turies ;  and  the  rooted  antipathy  on  the  part  of  the  hill 
people  toward  the  better-dressed  villagers  was  almost 
past  belief.  There  could  hardly  have  been  a  sharper 
line  of  division  between  Jew  and  Gentile.  The  differ- 
ences had  slowly  come  about  from  the  lack  of  frequent 
communication,  of  good  schools,  and  of  a  convenient 
place  for  united  worship.  As  most  of  the  families  on 
the  hill  had  a  common  origin,  and  were  nearly  all  con- 
nected by  marriage,  there  came  to  be  a  known  type  of 


VILLAGE  AND   COUNTRY  1 29 

countenance  among  them.  Their  ways  were  painfully 
coarse,  but  actual  illiteracy  was  uncommon  ;  that  is  to 
say,  it  was  rare  to  find  a  man  who  could  not  sign  his 
name,  and  keep  what  might  pass  for  accounts,  to  be 
sharply  disputed  over  at  settlement  with  the  store- 
keeper ;  but  the  general  ignorance  would  have  been 
charming  to  those  who  place  the  Golden  Age  in  the  cen- 
turies before  the  Reformation.  There  were  few  books 
(probably  not  half  a  dozen  to  a  household),  almost  no 
newspapers,  no  hints  of  science,  and  no  knowledge  of 
the  world,  literally  or  figuratively.  The  people  spoke 
their  mother  tongue  as  they  had  heard  it,  using  words 
long  obsolete,  as  well  as  Saxon  plurals  and  termina- 
tions, wholly  unconscious  that  there  was  such  a  thing 
as  grammar.  The  difference  between  their  speech  and 
that  of  the  village  was,  however,  more  in  matter  than 
in  phrase  ;  but  the  universal  drawl  and  twisting  of 
accent  were  considerably  intensified  on  the  hill.  Lit- 
erary English  is  the  product  of  centuries  of  learned 
labor ;  chimney-corner  English  is  a  common  and  inde- 
feasible inheritance,  somewhat  abused  by  Yankees,  it 
must  be  admitted. 

In  a  religious  point  of  view,  the  majority  in  the  re- 
mote districts  were  not  actively,  but  passively,  ungodly, 
or  at  least  indifferent  to  the  established  worship. 
]\Ianv  were  too  far  from  the  meetimr-house  to  attend 
regularly,  even  if  they  had  not  such  a  repugnance  to 
the  village  set  ;  besides,  they  and  their  horses  had  need 
of  rest  ;  and  when  they  heard  the  gospel  at  all,  it  was 
at  a  district  schoolhouse,  where  some  unlettered  apostle 
of  an  Ishmaelitish  church  gloried  in  non-conformity, 
and  poured  contempt  upon  "  book-larnin',"  "hirelin' 
priests,"    and    the    "  praise    of    God    with    choirs   and 


I30  QUABBIN" 

fiddles."  Some  of  these,  later,  supported  the  Metho- 
dist church,  and  contributed  to  build  for  it  a  small 
meetino^-house  in  the  centre  of  Ouabbin. 

The  distrust  of  the  village  folks  which  prevailed  in 
the  outskirts  was  assiduously  cultivated  by  neighbor- 
hood leaders,  until  it  became  something  like  that  of  a 
British  radical  for  a  Tory  peer.  In  any  popular 
assembly  there  will  be  parties ;  and  local  managers, 
(demagogues  they  might  be  called)  make  them  serve 
their  personal  ends.  From  this  source  came  the  long 
and  obstinate  resistance  to  the  improvement  of  the 
public  schools,  and  to  the  making  of  needed  roads  and 
bridges.  Fierce  but  bloodless  battles  were  fought  at 
the  annual  town  meetings,  where  any  proposition,  of 
what  nature  soever,  if  made  by  an  enlightened  villager, 
especially  if  he  happened  to  be  prominent  in  the 
church,  was  at  once  opposed  by  all  the  outdv/ellers  and 
dissidents,  these  always  rising  to  be  counted  when  the 
*' otherwise  minded  "  were  called  by  the  moderator. 

The  drunken  and  depraved  portion  of  the  towns- 
people naturally  sided  with  the  ''  otherwise  minded  '* 
in  opposing  the  party  of  the  church  and  parish  ;  but 
that  portion  was  not  large,  and  the  greater  and  better 
part  of  the  opposition  were  not  at  all  responsible  for 
the  conduct  of  their  shameless  allies. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  the  villagers  —  "  towns- 
people "  they  were  called  in  the  country — were  greatly 
distinguished  for  reading  or  general  intelligence,  for 
there  were  scarcely  more  than  half  a  dozen  fairly  well- 
educated  families  among  them,  and,  judged  by  any  high 
standard,  not  so  many  ;  but  the  advantage  was,  that 
among  the  less  educated  villagers  there  was  no  bigoted 
preference  for  ignorance.  If  they  were  not  illuminated, 
their  faces  were  turned  toward  the  light. 


VILLAGE  AND   COUATRY  13I 

The  few  collections  of  books  were  well  known,  and, 
excepting  that  of  the  second  minister  and  of  the 
lawyer,  it  is  doubtful  if  any  contained  so  many  as  a 
hundred  volumes  ;  few  had  as  many  as  fifty.  It  is 
painful  to  think  of  the  meagre  supply  of  reading  avail- 
able, excepting  religious  works.  If  a  boy  were  looking 
about  for  something  to  read,  he  would  have  found 
Josephus,  Rollin's  *'  Ancient  History,"  the  "  Pil- 
grim's Progress,"  and  some  religious  treatises  before 
mentioned;  also,  ''Riley's  Narrative,"  a  story  of  cap- 
tivity among  Arabs,  Milton,  Pollok's  "  Course  of 
Time,"  Cowper,  a  few  lives  of  celebrated  preachers, 
and  the  like.  If  there  were  any  complete  copies  of 
the  works  of  Shakspeare,  Dryden,  Pope,  Addison,  or 
Johnson,  they  must  have  been  seldom  exhibited  and 
seldom  read.  The  same  may  be  said  of  Burns,  Byron, 
Coleridge,  Shelley,  Wordsworth,  and  Keats.  No  "  pro- 
fane "  author  was  ever  quoted  in  a  discourse  ;  and  every 
author  was  profane  who  did  not  write  upon  religious 
subjects,  and  on  evangelical  lines.  No  instruction  was 
given  in  literature  in  the  schools  ;  no  English  poetry 
was  ever  used  except  to  be  picked  to  pieces  in  parsing 
lessons.  Therefore  an  intelligent  lad  might  get  what 
education  the  schools  of  Quabbin  could  give  him,  with- 
out ever  seeing  any  work  of  the  great  British  poets 
(Alilton  excepted),  or  of  any  great  writers  of  English 
prOse  (Bunyan  excepted),  and  without  knowing  the 
character  or  even  the  existence  of  any  "  profane " 
author  who  did  not  happen  to  be  represented  by  a 
specimen  in  some  reading-book.  Sometimes  a  youtli 
might  be  favored  by  a  certain  generous  but  ** worldly" 
old  lady,  who  had  preserved  in  secret  books  of  tales 
like   ''The  Arabian    Nights,"    or   romances  like    "The 


132  QUABBIN 

Scottish  Chiefs,"  or  more  recent  poems  like  "The  Lady 
of  the  Lake."  But  the  youth  could  not  keep  such 
books  in  safety,  except  in  the  barn  and  under  the  hay, 
nor  read  them,  except  at  intervals  and  by  stealth. 

To  ignore  all  literature  except  their  own  was  the 
policy  of  the  religious  leaders  of  Massachusetts.  They 
did  not  make  an  Index  Expiirgatorius,  for  notoriety 
would  have  defeated  their  purpose. 

If  such  was  the  intellectual  conditions  of  the  vil- 
lage, what  must  have  been  the  darkness  of  the  outly- 
ing regions } 


TOWN,  PARISH,  AND    CHURCH  133 


CHAPTER    XV 

TOWN,    PARISH,    AND    CHURCH 

A  "town"  in  Massachusetts  is  a  small  republic,  or 
a  corporation  erected  by  statute  in  certain  fixed 
limits,  and  exercising  powers  established  and  defined 
by  a  general  law.  The  existence  and  functions  of 
towns  antedate  any  legislation.  At  the  beginning,  each 
*' plantation"  set  up  its  local  government  as  by  intui- 
tion. **  Township  "  is  not  a  native  term,  and,  so  far  as 
it  has  any  meaning  in  Massachusetts,  refers  to  the  ter- 
ritory of  a  town.  The  town,  as  we  have  seen,  main- 
tains within  its  boundaries  roads,  bridges,  and  schools, 
and  supports  its  poor,  if  there  should  be  any  having  a 
legal  settlement.  Formerly  it  was  obliged  to  provide 
for  the  military  drill  and  equipment  of  its  able-bodied 
citizens  of  legal  age.  Formerly,  also,  it  elected  the 
minister,  voted  his  salary,  and  raised  the  amount  by 
taxation,  like  other  town  charges  ;  for  in  early  time^ 
the  town  and  parish  were  one.  Later,  the  notion  of 
the  town  was  that  of  a  corporation  for  civil  purposes, 
and  of  the  parish,  a  corporation  for  religious  purposes  ; 
and  in  many  cases  both  corporations  covered  the  same 
area.  If  a  town  was  large  and  became  populous,  it 
might  be  divided  (for  religious  jKirposes  solelv)  into  two 
or  more  parishes.  A  ''church"  means  such  persons  as 
have  made  a  prescribed  profession  of  faith  and  expe- 
rience, and  have  united  under  a  covenant.     \  churcli- 


134  QUAE  BIN 

member,  imlcss  non-resident,  was  necessarily  a  member 
of  the  parish,  but  the  reverse  was  not  necessary. 

Every  inhabitant  used  to  be  assessed  by  the  author- 
ities of  the  town  for  civil  purposes,  and  of  the  parish 
for  religious  purposes.  In  earlier  times,  and  while  the 
town  and  parish  were  virtually  one,  there  was  no  excep- 
tion to  this  rule;  but  after  a  time  the  law  allowed  a 
man  to  sever  his  connection  with  the  parish,  without 
changing  his  residence,  if  he  could  show  that  he  was 
taxed  for  the  support  of  worship  elsewhere.  Unbe- 
lievers and  dissidents,  sixty  years  ago,  considered  the 
compulsory  support  of  the  gospel  an  oppression  ;  and 
there  was  no  end  of  wrath  and  profanity  about  it,  until 
at  length  the  voluntary  system  was  established  by  law, 
and  the  final  divorce  of  church  and  state  accomplished. 
That,  one  would  think,  was  the  **  Emancipation  of 
Massachusetts." 

Most  well-disposed  people  paid  the  ''minister  tax" 
whether  they  went  to  meeting  or  not.  To  withdraw 
was  called  "signing-off,"  —  a  bull  in  terms,  but  a  pro- 
ceeding perfectly  understood,  —  and  was  considered 
disreputable,  unless  prompted  by  religious  conviction. 
Many  members  of  the  parish  were  not  church-mem- 
bers, although  they  might  regularly  attend  meeting. 
When  the  bi-monthly  communion  was  to  be  celebrated, 
non  church-members  usually  left  the  meeting-house 
after  sermon. 

The  parish  and  church  voted  separately  upon  the 
calling  of  a  minister,  and  upon  the  amount  of  his  sal- 
ary. Differences  often  occurred,  and,  even  when  the 
two  bodies  agreed,  there  was  a  third  power  to  be  con- 
sulted, namely  an  ecclesiastical  council,  composed  of 
ministers   and    delegates    from    neighboring   churches, 


nM. 


i!!^m^v::'''mwm!^?^SK^r'rT'!mr'!^ 


IT. 
< 


^^HL^ 


TOWN,  PARISH,  AND  CHURCH  1 35 

whose  approv^al  was  considered  necessary  in  later  times. 
A  minister's  first  settlement  was  an  ''ordination;"  a 
subsequent  one  an  *' installation." 

So  Ouabbin  sixty  years  ago  was  a  duplex  republic  ; 
an  organized  democracy  in  civil  affairs,  and  a  religious 
corporation  in  its  other  aspect.  In  the  annual  town- 
meeting,  and  in  the  parish-meeting,  every  man  had  his 
voice  and  his  vote.  There  was  (and  still  is)  no  rank  or 
primacy  except  from  known  ability  and  worth.  \\'ith 
characteristic  simplicity  the  chief  ofificers  of  a  town 
were  styled  the  *' Selectmen,"  and,  with  a  view  of  re- 
straining loquacity  and  personalities,  the  chairman, 
chosen  for  each  occasion,  was- termed  the  **  Moder- 
ator." There  were  also  chosen  each  year  a  School 
Committee,  Overseers  of  the  Poor,  Town  Clerk,  Treas- 
urer, and  Surveyors  of  Highways. 

The  first  business  in  order  was  the  presentation  of 
reports  of  town  officers  for  the  year  then  ending. 
These  were  read,  discussed,  and  acted  upon,  and  their 
recommendations  submitted  to  vote.  Appropriations 
were  then  made  for  the  various  town  charges,  after 
which  the  officers  for  the  coming  year  were  elected  by 
ballot.  In  no  legislative  body  was  business  more  intel- 
ligently done,  and  out  of  this  long  experience  there 
has  been  made  a  manual  of  practice.  The  moderator 
ruled  upon  the  admissibility  of  motions,  and  the  order 
of  precedence,  in  case  more  than  one  was  made  at  the 
same  time.  He  knew  the  *'p'ints  of  order,"  and 
promptly  decided  what  question  was  rightfully  before 
the  meeting.  Any  one  aggrieved  by  his  decision 
might  appeal  to  the  meeting,  which  sustained  or  re- 
versed his  ruling  by  a  majority  vote.  Probably  there 
is  nowhere   a   body   of    men  better   trained   to   public 


136  QUABBIN 

service  than  the  voters  of  New  England,  and  of  those 
States  that  have  followed  the  same  methods.  There 
are  places  in  Great  Britain  in  which  there  is  not  the 
least  notion  of  an  orderly  or  parliamentary  procedure  ; 
as,  for  instance,  where  the  chairman  of  a  meeting 
makes  a  motion,  —  which  is  in  itself  absurd, — and 
where  such  a  motion  and  a  hostile  amendment  are  sub- 
mitted to  a  vote  at  one  and  the  same  time.  An  expe- 
rienced moderator  would  make  short  work  of  the 
confusion  that  arises  from  ignorance  or  mischief,  and 
promptly  show  what  question  is  rightfully  before  the 
meeting.  The  usage  was  not  copied  from  the  rules  of 
the  State  Legislature ;  on  the  contrary,  the  town  was 
the  original  unit  and  model,  and  the  State  an  aggrega- 
tion. The  experience  of  a  century  and  a  half  in  these 
primitive  assemblies  made  the  working  of  the  State 
Legislature  under  the  Constitution  an  easy  matter. 

The  state  of  schools,  roads,  bridges,  and  the  town 
accounts,  with  all  that  concerns  public  order  and  well- 
being,  were  discussed  by  and  in  presence  of  those 
vitally  interested.  Whoever  had  anything  to  say,  said 
it  ;  and  practice  made  speech  pointed  and  effective. 
It  was  face  to  face  and  man  to  man.  Facts  and  wise 
suggestions  had  weight ;  but,  when  the  business  of  a 
year  was  to  be  finished  in  a  session  of  a  day,  mere  talk 
had  small  consideration. 

This  little  annual  parliament  has  some  likeness  to 
the  village  assemblies  of  our  Teutonic  ancestors,  and 
to  the  democratic  rule  in  ancient  Athens  ;  but  as  a 
scheme  of  local  administration  it  is  more  practical 
and  efficient  than  any  ever  devised.  It  Vv^as  and  is  a 
means  of  education  of  the  highest  value. 

Something  has  been    said   of  the  effect   of  political 


toivjV,  parish,  and  church  137 

independence  upon  character,  and  of  the  sturdy  spirit 
that  came  from  the  individual  ownership  of  farms,  and 
from  the  extinction  of  feudal  customs.  To  these  must 
be  added  the  institution  of  the  "  town,"  as  one  of  the 
influences  that  have  made  New  England  people  what 
they  are. 

This  simple  and  automatic  machine,  with  the  general 
education  and  moral  training  which  then  came  into 
being,  was  the  sure  foundation  of  personal  liberty  and 
free  government.  Every  voter  was  in  effect  a  member 
of  a  committee  of  supervision  upon  all  matters  which 
concerned  him.  By  himself,  or  by  a  known  and  ac- 
cepted proxy,  he  managed  the  schools,  kept  order, 
repressed  evil-doers,  and  maintained  highways.  It  was 
to  his  ow^n  nominee  that  he  paid  the  taxes  he  had 
assisted  in  levying  :  no  stranger  came  to  take  his  hard- 
earned  money.  His  trusted  neighbor  was  the  justice 
before  whom  he  could  plead  his  cause.  The  law  was 
not  a  distant  or  distrusted  power  ;  its  force  was  exer- 
cised for  him  in  so  far  as  he  was  just.  He  was  at  once 
ruler  and  subject,  a  member  of  the  only  true  and  benefi- 
cent democracy  the  world  has  seen.  Why  should  he 
not  cheerfully  obey,  since  the  precepts  were  of  his  own 
making,  and  the  instruments  of  justice  named  by  his 
own  voice  t 

Under  local  control  the  schools  have  naturally  indi- 
cated the  state  of  public  sentiment.  People  would  have 
felt  less  personal  interest  even  in  better  schools,  if  they 
had  been  directed  by  some  remote  or  exterior  authority. 
With  the  general  advance  of  intelligence  the  schools 
have  been  improved,  and  each  neighborhood  regards  its 
own  with  the  pride  of  possession. 

Furthermore,  the   system   of   town   government   has 


138  QUAE  BIN 

made  possible  the  plan  of  "local  option"  as  to  the  sale 
of  intoxicating  drinks.  A  town,  by  its  vote,  may  per- 
mit or  deny  the  granting  of  licenses  for  the  retail  sale 
of  spirits,  wine,  and  beer  within  its  borders.  In  a 
very  great  number  of  small  towns  such  licenses  are  for- 
bidden, and  the  general  good  order  in  the  villages  is 
believed  to  be  d.ue  to  this  regulation. 

Carlyle,  who,  if  his  writings  had  been  speech,  would 
have  made  more  noise  than  any  in  his  generation,  has 
given  way  to  many  outbursts  of  temper  upon  talk. 
And,  truly,  w^en  talkers  without  knowledge  are  desir- 
ous mainly  of  hearing  their  own  voices,  and  have  not  a 
heartfelt  interest  in  the  thing  discussed,  nor  power  to 
follow  up  opinion  by  action,  talk  may  be  as  dreary  and 
profitless  as  he  represents  it.  But  when  it  is  spent 
upon  topics  that  come  home  to  men's  ''  business  and 
bosoms,"  on  a  fit  and  necessary  occasion,  with  per- 
sonal knowledge  of  the  matters  to  be  decided,  and 
with  intention  to  decide  them  then  and  there,  surely 
talk  is  one  of  the  most  important  and  useful  of 
faculties. 

New  England  has  been  justly  reproached  as  the 
country  of  windy  oratory.  Almost  every  eminent 
scholar  and  public  man  in  times  past  felt  bound  to 
deliver  set  '^  orations,"  and  to  include  them  in  his 
published  works,  but  the  fashion  has  had  its  day. 
Still,  something  may  be  said  in  favor  of  a  system  which 
enables  people  to  set  forth  their  views  on  matters  of 
public  interest  with  clearness  and  force  ;  especially 
wlicn  they  are  able  to  make  of  thought,  fact  ;  of  ideas, 
institutions  ;  of  resolve,  action  ;  of  character,  renown. 

There  are  people  who  are  reasonably  intelligent,  and 
yet   are  unable  to  listen    to    opinions    and    arguments 


TOWN,  PARISH,  /LVD   CHURCH  1 39 

which  they  do  not  approve.  At  the  appearance  of  a 
leader  of  a  party  opposed  to  theirs,  and  often  at  the 
bare  mention  of  his  name,  they  burst  forth  in  impre- 
cations, hootings,  and  yells,  and  endeavor  to  drown  the 
speaker's  voice  and  break  up  the  meeting.  Others 
still  more  violent  use  missiles  and  clubs,  so  that  band- 
ages, eye-shades,  and  sticking-plaster  become  neces- 
sities for  a  candidate's  outfit.  Such  men  vvould  need 
some  preliminary  education  before  they  could  take  part 
in  the  business  of  a  deliberative  body.  The  people  of 
New  England  have  not  been  without  blame  in  this 
respect,  as  all  early  anti-slavery  men  well  remember  ; 
but  in  town  meetings  the  decorum  observed,  even  in 
the  sharpest  contests,  has  been  remarkable.  The  self- 
control  acquired  in  these  annual  assemblies  has  done 
much  to  preserve  the  amenities  in  political  gatherings, 
and  has  made  possible  something  like  dispassionate 
consideration  of  public  questions. 

Quabbin,  like  other  towns,  had  its  stormy  meetings  ; 
sometimes  it  was  the  town  party,  and  sometimes  the 
country  party  that  won  ;  but  in  the  long  run  justice 
was  generally  done.  An  instance  of  sharp  practice 
may  be  mentioned  :  — 

A  wealthy  and  prominent  citizen,  who  was  a  leading 
church-member,  and  vehemently  disliked  by  the  people 
of  the  outlying  districts,  made  a  motion  at  one  meet- 
ing that  the  authorities  be  instructed  to  close  a  certain 
road  which  was  little  used.  He  said  nothing  in  sup- 
port of  his  motion,  and  preserved  an  impassible  look. 
A  leading  man  in  the  country  party  was  quick  to  see 
that  the  mover  really  wanted  the  road  kept  open,  as  it 
led  to  his  own  land.  This  man,  therefore,  promptly 
seconded  the  motion,  looking  round  keenly  at  his  sup- 


140  QUAE  BIN 

porters  in  tnc  rear  of  tlie  hall.  They  were  in  full  force 
that  day,  and  the  motion  was  carried  by  show  of  hands. 
The  truth  was,  the  mover  had  found  that  whatever  he 
proposed  was  defeated,  and,  desiring-  to  have  this  road 
maintained  for  his  personal  convenience,  moved  to  dis- 
continue it,  and  was  caught  in  his  own  trap.  It  was  a 
pity  he  resorted  to  a  trick  by  which  his  influence  was 
so  much  impaired  ;  for  he  had  been  one  of  the  most 
liberal  and  enlightened  friends  of  the  public  schools, 
and  in  favor  of  most  projects  of  reform. 


THE  SECOND  MINISTER  141 


CHAPTER    XVI 

THE    SECOND    MINISTER 

This  young  man  was  ordained  as  colleague,  with  a 
salary  of  five  hundred  dollars  and  the  use  of  a  good 
modern  house.  The  use  of  "  pounds "  in  reckoning 
had  gone  by.  At  the  ceremony  of  ordination  there 
was  present  a  small  spectator,  who  in  after  years  re- 
called "the  laying  on  of  hands."  The  pulpit  seemed 
to  be  black  with  ministers,  —  swarming  with  them; 
and  at  a  certain  time  the  candidate  knelt,  with  his 
pale  face  on  the  puffy  crimson  cover  of  the  desk,  and 
then  ever  so  many  white  hands  were  stretched  out, 
and  rested  on  his  head  while  the  ''ordaining  i:)rayer" 
was  made. 

The  new  minister  was  a  slender  man,  of  serious 
yet  pleasant  countenance,  with  soft,  engaging,  deep-set 
brown  eyes,  which  could  flash  upon  occasion,  and  a 
broad  white  forehead  with  full  temples  that  showed 
a  network  of  throbbing  veins.  He  looked  fragile,  but 
was  nervous  and  wiry,  and  an  indefatigable  worker. 
There  was  enough  for  him  to  do. 

The  state  of  religion,  viewed  as  a  ceremonv,  was 
much  as  it  had  always  been  ;  but  the  life  of  religion, 
which  is  active  piety,  with  soberness,  pur  it  v,  and  godly 
living,  had  sadly  declined.  This  was  seen  in  every 
aspect  of  society,  but  chiefly  in  the  prevalent  habit  of 


142  QUABBIN 

drinking,  in  the  dull  formality  of  prayer-meetings,  and 
in  the  wretched  state  of  the  schools.  The  new  minis- 
ter soon  came  to  the  conclusion  that  no  "revival" 
would  permanently  benefit  the  church,  and  that  no 
efforts  could  raise  the  standard  of  education,  until  the 
excess  of  drinking  was  restrained.  But  he  found  out, 
as  Dr.  Johnson  did  long  before,  that  moderation  was 
more  difficult  than  abstinence ;  and  he  set  to  work  to 
found  a  total  abstinence  society,  of  which  a  revived 
church  was  to  be  the  nucleus. 

The  drinking  habit  had  been  universal,  and  though 
there  were  not  many  notorious  drunkards,  true  modera- 
tion was  rare.  People  who  wanted  it,  got  rum  at  the 
store,  and  kept  it  at  home,  or  in  their  workshops.  As 
we  have  seen,  it  appeared  at  the  pastoral  call  ;  it  re- 
freshed the  ecclesiastical  council  at  an  ordination  ;  it 
was  glorious  at  a  house-raising  when  neighbors  came 
to  give  a  lift,  and  indispensable  at  the  annual  training. 
When  heads  were  heated,  the  usual  consequences  fol- 
lowed :  sometimes  the  machinist  talked  foully;  or  it 
was  the  shoemaker  who  declaimed  politics  while  he 
slit  the  upper  leather  in  trimming  a  shoe  ;  or  it  was  the 
butcher  who  argued  upon  theology  as  he  bled  a  calf ; 
or  it  was  the  blacksmith  who  had  grown  oblivious  of  a 
waiting  customer,  and  let  his  fire  die  out  on  the  forge. 
As  has  been  already  stated,  the  indications  of  intem- 
perance among  the  farms  met  the  eye  at  the  first 
glance,  in  dilapidation  and  ruin.  There  w-ere  carts 
without  wheels,  and  wheels  without  carts,  and  all  man- 
ner of  broken  tools,  cumbering  the  yards.  The  grass 
plots  were  defiled  by  geese.  Petticoats  and  old  hats 
were  stuffed  in  broken  windows.  Fences  leaned,  gates 
were  off  their  hinges,  and  walls  were  tottering.     Lean 


THE  SECOND  MINISTER  1 43 

and  discontented  cows  got  into  the  growing  corn. 
Colts  went  about  with  manes  and  tails  full  of  burrs. 
Pigs  disported  in  the  vegetable  garden.  Orchards 
lapsed  into  wildness,  and  bristled  with  useless  shoots. 
Untended  pastures  were  nibbled  bare,  and  dotted  with 
clumps  of  bushes.  Mowing  fields  were  overrun  with 
sorrel  and  white-weed. 

Meanwhile  there  were  accidents,  woes,  "■  wounds 
without  cause,"  falls  from  wagon  or  cart,  stumbles  in 
ditches,  and  a  sorry  show  of  bleared  eyes,  cracked 
hands,  and  unshaven  faces.  Voices  on  such  farms  were 
under  no  control ;  men  shouted,  women  screamed,  and 
boys  replied  :  there  was  one  from  which  the  high- 
p'tched  voices  were  often  heard  for  half  a  mile.  Wives 
struggled  long  on  the  downward  slope,  striving  to  keep 
up  an  air  of  respectability,  but  at  length  gave  way  to 
despair,  sank  to  their  husband's  level,  or  lower,  and  be- 
came frowsy,  loose-haired,  and  sharp-tongued.  Scold- 
ing only  deepened  the  common  misery.  By  knitting 
stockings  they  procured  tea  or  snuff,  if  they  used  it, 
or  a  bit  of  calico.  The  daughters  when  they  wanted 
gowns  or  ribbons  paid  for  them  by  braiding  palm-leaf 
hats.  The  boys  had  a  hard  time  to  get  their  school- 
ing, and  were  glad  to  trap  muskrats,  mink,  partridges, 
or  rabbits,  and  to  gather  wild  nuts  or  berries,  so  as  to 
buy  hats,  boots,  and  books. 

Oh  !  those  farms  !  what  misery  did  they  not  witness. 
Love  had  flown  long  before  ;  self-respect  was  dead,  and 
comfort  a  rare  visitor.  Sordid  poverty  was  in  posses- 
sion, with  ignorance,  iil-tcmpcr,  and  l^rutishness.  But 
there  was  always  a  supply  of  hard  cider  and  of  rum  ; 
the  store-keeper  gave  liberal  credit,  on  conditions  ;  and, 
until  the  Icncrth    of  tlie   tether  was    run,   the   farmer's 


144  QUAE  BIN 

nose  continued  to  glow  like  a  dull  ruby.  But  the  end 
came  sooner  or  later.  The  sheriff's  officer  was  no 
stranger,  and  sometimes  a  debtor  or  trespasser  was 
carried  away  to  the  county  jail. 

What  was  political  independence,  or  ownership  of 
land  in  severalty,  or  the  education  of  town  meetings, 
or  the  preaching  of  the  gospel,  or  any  other  blessing, 
to  men  sunk  in  such  degradation  ? 

The  minister  saw  that  half  measures  would  not  do  ; 
he  threw  his  whole  soul  into  the  work  of  inducins:  the 
church  to  take  a  stand  upon  total  abstinence,  and  at 
length  succeeded.  Intemperate  brethren  were  warned, 
and,  if  necessary,  excommunicated.  To  be  a  church- 
member  was  to  be  an  abstainer.  The  next  move  prom- 
ised to  be  more  difficult.  He  turned  to  the  parish  and 
the  town,  and  after  a  time  got  the  authorities  to  dis- 
countenance the  excesses  that  had  attended  public 
meetings.  He  had  to  wait  for  a  chance  to  attack  the 
people  of  the  wild  and  drunken  district,  but  at  length 
one  came  to  him  most  unexpectedly. 

There  was  a  meeting  of  the  able-bodied  men  of  the 
military  company  for  drill  or  display,  which  was  followed 
by  a  tragic  incident.  The  like  of  this  village  "training" 
was  never  seen  except  in  some  burlesque  on  the  stage. 
The  men  kept  time  to  the  sound  of  fife  and  drums,  but 
of  erect  military  carriage,  of  the  manual  of  arms,  and 
of  company-formation,  they  were  ludicrously  ignorant. 
Heads  moved  automatically  from  side  to  side,  shoulders 
rose  and  fell  in  a  distressing  rhythm,  and  awkward  feet 
struck  out  right  and  left.  Even  the  boys,  who  had 
never  seen  any  well-drilled  company  parade,  laughed 
and  shouted  from  one  end  of  the  common  to  the 
other. 


THE  SECOND  MINISTER  MS 

The  head-gear  was  in  shape  like  an  apothecary's  mor- 
tar ;  the  material  of  shining  black  leather,  with  a  flat 
brass  chain  festooned  across  the  front,  and  a  chin- 
strap  ;  the  whole  surmounted  by  a  plume  made  of  small 
feathers,  standing  more  than  a  foot  high  ;  the  lower 
part  white,  and  the  tip  bright  crimson.  The  coat  was 
dark  green,  closely  fitting,  with  brass  buttons,  and  trans- 
versely braided  on  the  breast  with  yellow  galloon.  The 
trousers  were  of  white  linen.  The  officers  wore  red 
sashes.  It  was  a  gay  costume.  The  manoeuvres  were 
simple  to  childishness.  The  firing  of  the  flint-lock 
muskets  (with  blank  cartridges)  resembled  nothing  so 
much  as  the  hap-hazard  clatter  of  the  hinged  seats  in 
the  meeting-house. 

When  the  show  was  over  th-e  soldiers  gathered  at  the 
tavern,  where  rum-punch  was  consumed  by  bucketfuls  ; 
and  at  sundown  the  scattering  of  bewildered  men  for 
their  homes,  swaying  in  rickety  wagons,  or  stagger- 
ing along  on  foot,  was  something  never  to  be  for- 
gotten. 

People  had  come  from  far  and  near  to  see  the  train- 
ing ;  and  among  them  was  a  man  from  the  wild  district, 
who,  not  content  with  the  punch,  had  procured  a  small 
jug  of  rum  to  take  home.  He  was  standing  near  the 
tavern  door,  leaning  against  a  pillar  of  the  veranda, 
and  keeping  a  tight  hold  of  his  precious  jug.  His  dis- 
ordered hair,  the  spasms  of  muscular  action  in  his  face, 
the  unsteady  movements  of  his  knees,  which  seemed 
inclined  to  double  under  him,  and  the  alternate  come 
and  go  of  light  in  his  foxy  eyes,  showed  that  he  had 
long  passed  the  safety  line  of  self-possession,  and  was 
heading  for  some  catastrophe.  Two  men  from  his 
neighborhood  observed  him,  and  came  near. 


146  QUAE  BIN- 

"Harv,"  said  one,  "where  yeou  goin'?  What  ye  got 
in  thet  ere  jug  ?  " 

"i\Iy  name  ain't  Harv,"  said  the  drunken  man  with  a 
vicious  assumption  of  dignity.  ''  Yeou  know  tJict ! 
Wher'm  I  goin'?  I'm  goin'  hum  —  when  I  git  ready; 
an'  what  I've  got  in  this  ere  jug  ain't  nothin'  to  no- 
body." 

The  friend  pursued,  — 

"  Naow,  don't  yer  git  furus  fer  nothin',  Harvey.  I 
was  'feard  yeou  was  goin'  ter  try  walkin'  home  alone  ; 
an'  the  road's  rough,  an'  it's  goin'  ter  be  dark  ez  a 
pocket  'fore  yeou  git  ther." 

"Thet's  so,"  said  the  other  neighbor.  ''Don't  yeou 
start  alone.     Yeou  jest  go  'long  'ith  us." 

''  I  k'n  walk,"  said  Harvey,  **an'  I  know  the  road.  I 
c'd  f oiler  it  'ith  my  eyes  shet,  an'  my  ban's  tied  behind 
me. 

''  Naow,  Harvey,  hear  tu  reason  !  I  don't  say  yer 
can't  walk,  an'  don't  know  the  road,  —  on'y  't  '11  be 
safer  fer  ye  ter  hev  company." 

But  Harvey  couldn't  be  "druv,"  as  he  said  ;  and,  irri- 
tated at  the  imputation  of  being  unfit  to  take  care  of 
himself,  he  started  off,  covering  a  good  part  of  the 
breadth  of  the  road  as  he  went.  It  was  a  long  way 
he  had  to  go,  and  it  was  pitch  dark  when  he  reached 
the  hiUy  region.  He  called  for  a  moment  at  the  house 
of  an  acquaintance,  and  from  there,  against  all  persua- 
sion, started  across-lots  upon  a  path  sufficiently  difficult 
for  a  sober  man  in  daylight.  The  event  happened  which 
was  expected.  He  strayed  out  of  the  path,  stumbled, 
and  fell  over  a  precipice,  and  next  morning  was  found 
dead,  his  stiffened  hand  still  grasping  the  handle  of  the 
broken  jug. 


THE   SECOND   MIXISTER  147 

The  new  minister  went  out  to  attend  the  funeral. 
There  was  a  great  gathering,  especially  of  the  class  to 
which  the  dead  man  had  belonged.  There  were  far  too 
many  for  the  small  and  cheerless  house  to  hold  ;  so, 
v.hile  the  family  sat  in  the  room  with  the  coffin,  the 
neighbors  remained  outside,  and  the  minister  con- 
ducted the  services  in  the  open  air,  standing  on  a 
log  by  the  wood-pile.  When  he  came  to  address  the 
mourners,  it  was  said  that  never  a  battery  with  grape- 
shot  threw  a  crowd  into  such  consternation.  He  was 
by  nature  sympathetic,  but  he  was  courageous,  and  ter- 
ribly in  earnest.  He  repeated  with  thrilling  emphasis 
the  woes  denounced  in  the  Old  Testament  airainst 
drunkards  ;  and  never,  perhaps,  since  the  days  of  the 
prophets,  did  they  appear  so  dazzling  with  menace,  so 
mighty  in  power.  The  effect  was  indescribable.  Some 
were  so  angry  that  they  threatened  violence  ;  but,  aside 
from  the  respect  due  to  his  calling,  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  look  of  the  minister  that  repelled  aggression. 
He  told  them  of  their  brutal  neglect  of  their  wives  and 
children  ;  he  described  their  homes  without  comfort, 
their  lives  without  dignity  or  respect,  witli  the  poor- 
house,  the  jail,  and  the  pauper's  grave  before  them. 
He  told  them  of  their  want  of  manliness,  and  the  need 
they  had  of  the  sustaining  power  of  religion,  and  warned 
them  of  the  wrath  to  come.  Then  he  painted  the  de- 
lights of  home  as  it  should  be,  when  the  master  of  the 
house  is  a  man,  "clothed  and  in  his  right  mind."  He 
appealed  to  the  women,  of  whom  many  were  present, 
and  all  the  tenderness  of  his  heart  broke  forth.  Before 
he  had  done  there  were  sobs  and  groans.  Then  he 
l^-aycd.  ]ie}-ond  this  i)oint  it  would  not  be  right  to 
lollow  him  ;  but  the  reader  can  imagine  the  fervenc}'  of 


148  QUABBIN 

that  prayer  from  the  simple  fact  that  the  children  who 
had  heard  him  pray  when  he  came  to  visit  their  school 
had  more  than  once  at  the  end  of  his  prayer  found  the 
seat  of  the  chair  by  which  he  had  knelt  sprinkled  with 
tears.  What  a  glowing  heart  he  had  !  It  is  not  often 
that  a  strong  man  weeps  !  Precious  tears  they  were, 
not  unnoticed,  perhaps,  by  the  All-pitying  Eye. 


THE   CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  1 49 


CHAPTER    XVII 

THE    CAMPAIGN    BEGUN 

The  death  of  Harvey,  and  the  startling  scene  at  his 
funeral,  made  a  prodigious  talk  in  Quabbin  and  in  the 
surrounding  towns.  The  tragedy  had  furnished  the 
ardent  preacher  with  the  opportunity  and  the  text  with 
which  to  reach  the  consciences  of  men  who  stood  in 
need  of  warning.  Such  an  audience  could  have  been 
gathered  in  no  ordinary  way  ;  and  up  to  that  time  there 
had  been  no  man  ready  and  able  to  stand  up,  with  a 
wood-pile  for  a  pulpit,  and  set  before  a  set  of  drunken 
reprobates  a  true  picture  of  themselves  and  their  des- 
tiny. It  was  a  scene  upon  which  one  might  imagine 
the  angels  of  light  and  the  powers  of  darkness  to  be 
looking  as  upon  a  lifc-and-death  struggle  ;  for  the  future 
of  Quabbin  and  of  its  people  was  to  be  decided  there. 
Would  this  courageous  young  man,  who  stood  up  be- 
fore that  angry  crowd,  be  able  to  reach  their  hard 
hearts,  and  gain  entrance  for  the  Spirit  of  God  ^  Time 
was  to  show. 

There  was  another  "warning"  which  made  a  dec]D 
impression,  though  not  in  such  a  dramatic  way.  The 
tavern-keeper  was  injured  by  a  horse,  and  died  within 
two  or  three  days.  He  was  not  intemperate,  but  not  a 
church-member,  and,  aside  from  his  business,  was  uni- 
versally  liked.      Personally,   he    could    have   had    little 


150  QUABBIN- 

sympathy  with  the  weak  or  dissolute  people  who  fre- 
quented his  bar;  on  the  other  hand,  he  could  not  have 
had  any  very  warm  feeling  for  the  minister  and  the 
leading:  church-members  who  were  attackin^^  his  busi- 
ness,  and  arraying  the  moral  forces  of  the  town  in  a 
way  to  push  dram-sellers  and  dram-drinkers  into  out- 
lawry. The  reader  will  remember  the  story  of  the  clock 
in  a  former  chapter.  The  minister  was  not  supersti- 
tious, and  perhaps  never  heard  the  story ;  but  he 
'believed  and  taught  the  doctrine  of  a  particular  provi- 
dence, and  the  sudden  death  of  the  tavern-keeper  was 
"improved"  with  such  earnestness  that  all  the  town 
rang  with  the  echo. 

Gradually  the  church  became  a  body  of  total  ab- 
stainers ;  and  the  drinkers,  even  if  they  were  not  scan- 
dalously intemperate,  were  pushed  out  of  the  commun- 
ion. Before  many  years  there  was  a  great  change 
throughout  the  town  ;  the  incorrigible  were  removed 
by  death,  and  others  took  warning.  The  town-meet- 
ings became  more  orderly  ;  the  riotous  trainings  were 
given  up,  and  an  old  race-course,  two  miles  down  on 
the  river  road,  was  planted  with  corn.  After  a  time 
some  who  had  been  excommunicated  came  back,  chast- 
ened and  penitent,  and  lived  godly  lives  ever  afterward. 

At  these  blessed  chaneres  all  Ouabbin  smiled  with 
greener  fields,  and  with  brighter  and  purer  homes. 
Even  the  wild  north-west  district  became  peaceable,  and 
the  sessions  of  the  justice's  court  were  rare.  The 
dwellers  upon  the  outlying  farms,  though  necessarily 
poor  on  account  of  the  sterile  soil,  and  not  highly  edu- 
cated then  or  since,  became  Sunday  worshippers  and 
good  citizens.     The  old  savagery  was  going  by. 

This  was   the  work   of  the   second  minister,  for  the 


THE   CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  151 

impulse  came  from  him,  but  it  was  not  wholly  accom- 
plished in  his  day. 

At  the  beginning  he  was  almost  alone,  and  year 
after  year  there  were  new  efforts  to  be  made ;  and  at 
each  successive  reform  that  was  attempted  new  oppo- 
sition and  new  enmities  were  aroused.  The  long 
struggle  was  wearing  to  a  man  of  delicate  frame  and 
high-strung  nerves. 

Among  the  last  to  be  civilized  were  the  youths  from 
fourteen  to  eighteen  years  of  age.  At  the  singing- 
schools,  spelling-schools,  and  other  festive  occasions, 
these  young  savages  spoiled  the  pleasure  of  all  decent 
people.  It  was  their  chief  object  in  life  to  organize 
rebellion  in  the  district  schools;  and  where  they  were 
numerous  it  was  not  uncommon  to  have  a  change  of 
masters  once  or  twice  in  the  course  of  a  winter  session. 
They  would  make  the  master's  life  a  burden  by  inces- 
sant annoyances,  such  as  filling  the  house  with  smoke, 
by  putting  a  cover  on  the  chimney,  or  they  would  lock 
the  door  and  bar  the  windows  ;  and  sometimes  when  he 
attempted  to  punish  them  they  would  set  upon  him 
with  fists  and  feet.  The  masters  were  commonly  young, 
and  often  v/ere  college  students  who  were  compelled 
by  poverty  to  leave  their  studies  for  a  term  to  earn 
something.  The  pay  was  so  small  that  no  one  would 
think  of  making  teaching  a  profession,  and  there  was 
usually  but  one  session  of  thirteen  weeks  in  the  year. 
The  master  of  a  country  school  received  from  seven- 
teen to  twenty-five  dollars  per  month  and  his  board; 
about  the  wages  of  a  farmer's  hired  man.  The  board 
was  ambulatory,  —  a  week  with  this  family,  and  a  fiw 
days  with  that,  according  to  the  number  of  pupils  in 
each.     "Boarding  around"  gave  a  teacher  a  lively  im- 


152  QUAE  BIN 

pression  of  the  generosity  and  meanness  of  mankind, 
and  of  the  comforts  and  discomforts  of  country  life. 
The  temptation  to  linger  where  there  was  good  fare 
and  the  company  of  pretty  girls  was  generally  irresistible. 
A  night  in  a  fireless  bedroom,  with  the  glass  below 
zero;  a  morning  wash  in  water  from  a  basin  crusted 
with  ice  ;  toiling  to  subdue  a  thick  shock  of  hair  that 
crackled  with  electricity;  struggling  with  buttons  while 
red  fingers  were  stiffened  with  cold  —  such  were  the 
experiences  of  many  a  young  teacher.  After  breakfast 
he  might  have  to  walk,  perhaps  half  a  mile,  perhaps  a 
mile  and  a  half,  through  mid-leg  depths  of  new-fallen 
snow,  and  would  be  fortunate  if  he  found  the  school- 
room warm.  If  the  fire  had  not  been  made,  as  some- 
times happened,  it  would  be  necessary  to  cut  the  wood 
that  was  provided, —  often  green,  sappy,  and  ice-coated, 
—  and  wait  for  a  slowly  struggling  blaze.  Then  he 
might  have  to  wedge  loose  windows  to  keep  out  the 
draughts  that  cut  the  faces  and  necks  of  those  sitting 
near  them  as  with  icy  knives.  Then  pupils  were  to  be 
given  turns  near  the  stove,  alternating  with  banishment 
to  the  Arctic  corners,  where  the  chattering-  of  teeth  was 
constant  and  irrepressible.  Until  the  roaring  cast-iron 
stove  became  red,  and  the  ice-frescoed  windows  were 
thawed,  any  effective  study  was  impossible.  Often  the 
softening  process  occupied  most  of  the  morning  hours. 
It  will  be  believed  that  the  task  of  the  master,  and  of 
the  pupils,  was  hard  enough  when  good  humor,  good 
order,  and  obedience  reigned.  What  maddening  per- 
plexity was  it  when  a  herd  of  half-washed  fellows,  with 
wild  hair,  bovine  odor,  and  unpardonable  boots,  broke 
every  rule,  destroyed  the  indispensable  quiet,  burned 
offensive  matters  upon  the  stove,  expectorated  over  the 


THE    CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  153 

floor,  "  sarsed  "  the  master,  delighted  in  making  the  tall 
girls  blush,  and  the  small  ones  cry,  and  finally  precipi- 
tated a  *'  row,"  which  made  further  exercises  impossible ! 
Sometimes,  however,  they  met  their  match.  There 
was  a  school  from  which  two  masters  had  been 
''bounced,"  which  was  nevertheless  conquered  and 
held  in  order  by  a  resolute  young  woman  without  the 
least  trouble. 

This  teacher  had  the  good  sense  to  begin  without 
laying  down  any  rules,  so  that  she  was  not  obliged  to 
take  up  a  breach  of  order  unless  it  were  worth  while. 
Her  demeanor  showed  that  she  was  courageous,  and 
that,  if  she  were  to  be  overcome,  it  would  have  to  be 
done  by  brute  force  ;  and  the  boys  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  laying  hands  upon  a  w^oman.  She  was  busy 
with  instruction,  instead  of  lecturing  upon  order ;  and, 
as  she  had  the  gift  of  making  lessons  interesting,  the 
pupils  had  not  so  much  time  to  meditate  upon  mis- 
chief. The  very  first  case  of  deliberate  misbehavior 
was  taken  in  hand,  and  the  offender  soundly  punished 
then  and  there  ;  it  was  not  her  policy  to  w^ait,  so  as  to 
allow  of  a  combination  of  evil-doers.  By  firmness  and 
tact  the  turbulent  fellows  were  guided  into  studious 
habits,  and  any  outbreak  was  checked  without  a  mo- 
ment's delay.  After  two  days  of  her  rule  the  behavior 
of  the  school  was  such  as  to  leave  little  to  be  desired. 

The  summer  schools,  also  of  three  months,  were 
kept  by  young  women,  generally  inoffensive  and  un- 
burdened by  useless  learning,  and  were  composed  of 
girls,  and  of  such  barefooted  boys  as  were  not  wanted 
for  hoeing  corn  or  in  the  haying-field.  In  such  schools 
no  deep  problem  disturbed  the  simple  course  of  things. 
It  was  a  matter  of  rote  in  reading  and  spelling,  with  a 


154  ^         QUAE  BIN 

skimming  of  "joggafry,"  and  some  cautious  ventures 
in  arithmetic,  the  teacher  taking'  care  not  to  get  out  of 
soundings. 

There  were  other  conditions  in  school  life  of  which 
it  is  impossible  to  write,  and  which  cannot  be  recalled 
without  shame. 

The  sweeping  was  done  by  pupils  in  turn,  as  was 
the  makimj;  of  a  fire.  Dustins:  was  unknown.  The 
desks  were  profusely  and  deeply  sculptured.  The  walls 
were  adorned  with  charcoal  sketches,  and  the  ceiling 
with  bosses  of  papier-macJie,  made  adhesive  by  small 
jaws,  and  then  projected  from  popguns.  For  drinking, 
there  was  a  tin  dipper,  and  a  pail  containing  water 
brou2:ht  from  a  neic-hbor's  house.     How  nauseous  the 

o  o 

taste  of  that  warm  fluid  after  standinc:  some  hours  in 
pine  wood  !  and  what  a  smell  came  from  the  greasy  tin 
dipper  ! 

The  state  of  the  schools,  it  is  evident,  was  wretched, 
and  the  standard  of  attainment  low.  Farmers'  sons 
had  practically  but  three  months  in  the  year  for  their 
education,  after  they  were  old  enough  to  help  in  field, 
pasture,  or  garden  ;  and  the  limit  of  age  w^as  rarely 
favorable  to  the  boy.  In  the  centre  district,  boys  at- 
tended the  summer  schools  as  well ;  but  few  of  the 
female  teachers  were  strong  in  arithmetic,  or  had  the 
power  to  give  lagging  pupils  the  needful  sJiovc ;  and 
the  summer  tuition  was,  even  for  girls,  a  feeble  and 
profitless  thing.  The  methods  of  instruction  were  in- 
efficient in  all  the  schools,  for  the  teachers  generally 
were  qualified  neither  by  knowledge  or  experience. 
The  range  of  study  was  limited,  and,  with  the  constant 
changes,  no  real  progress  was  possible.  Classification, 
too,  was  out  of  the  question.      Forward  boys  of  eight 


THE   CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  155 

and  ten  years  of  age  might  be  in  a  class  with  great 
hulking  fellows  of  from  fourteen  to  nineteen,  —  belated 
scholars  who  were  striving  to  escape  from  utter  illiter- 
acy, with  but  few  months  in  which  to  accomplish  it. 
A  small  classmate  would  prompt  them  when  they  came 
to  hard  words  in  reading,  and  help  them  with  their 
"sums"  in  arithmetic.  They  were  untidy,  odorous  of 
the  stable,  coarse,  honest,  and  dull, — void  of  mathe- 
matical and  literary  sense.  No  other  scholars  fretted 
over  their  tasks  as  they  did,  and  few  to  so  little  pur- 
pose. In  return  for  help,  they  protected  their  small 
friend  from  the  bullying  of  boys  who  were  larger  and 
more  pugnacious,  and  now  and  then  brought  him  a 
''broadsword"  or  a  ''signifide"  apple.  The  broad- 
sword apple  tasted  like  a  rich  pear,  and  the  other  name 
was  a  corruption  of  "seek-no-further." 

The  use  of  the  ferule  was  so  common  that  under 
some  masters  the  best-intentioned  boy  could  not  escape 
having  his  hands  blistered  every  few  days. 

When  a  boy's  early  schooling  was  under  so  many 
different  teachers  the  results  were  mere  shreds  and 
patches,  and  progress  in  a  right  line  was  out  of  the 
question. 

There  was  never  any  provision  for  higher  education 
in  the  public  schools.  Grammar  was  a  mechanical 
exercise  without  any  living  links  with  literary  compo- 
sition, and  with  small  effect  on  daily  speech.  The  study 
of  geography  was  limited  to  a  short  treatise  with  wholly 
inadequate  maps.  The  chief  instruction  was  in  arith- 
metic, especially  in  C()ll)urn's  '*  Mental  Arithmetic," 
which  was  far  superior  to  the  books  which  have  suc- 
ceeded it. 

Those   who   had    aspirations   for    learning    got  some 


156  QUABBIN 

light  now  and  then  from  the  private  '*  select  schools  " 
opened  for  a  term  by  needy  college  students,  to  which 
pupils  were  admitted  on  payment  of  a  fee.  Several 
masters  came  to  Quabbin  sixty  years  ago,  whose  memo- 
ries live  in  the  hearts  of  grateful  youths.  In  such 
schools  one  might  begin  the  Latin  grammar,  read 
-^sop's  Fables,  and  study  algebra  and  elementary 
geometry  ;  and  though  the  term  came  to  an  end  all  too 
soon,  the  good  seed  was  sown  which  in  later  years 
might  spring  up  and  bear  fruit. 

With  suitable  books  it  is  seldom  difficult  for  an  in- 
telligent pupil  to  master  a  science  unaided.  What  is 
needed  is  the  impulse,  and  that  generally  comes  from 
an  intellectual  superior.  Very  little  book-knov/ledge 
is  acquired,  either  in  a  school  or  university,  which 
could  not  be  acquired  at  home ;  so  that  if  the  purpose 
of  the  higher  education  were  merely  to  store  the 
memory  with  facts,  the'  costly  machinery  might  be 
dispensed  with.  But  the  true  use  of  education  is  to  fit 
a  man  for  action  in  his  chosen  sphere,  for  which 
special  training,  readiness,  and  energy  are  necessary; 
and  for  this  it  is  of  the  highest  importance  that  the 
pupil  should  receive  a  forward  impulse  from  contact 
with  some  great  mind.  The  chief  benefit  of  a  univer- 
sity is  that  in  its  staff  of  teachers  and  lecturers  are 
included  some  of  the  eminent  scientific  and  literary 
men  of  the  age.  More  than  one  naturalist  has  been 
determined  in  his  vocation  by  a  current  of  electric 
energy  from  Agassiz.  That  man's  personality  was  so 
grand,  and  such  influence  radiated  from  him,  that 
pupils  were  kindled  by  his  enthusiasm,  and  ever  after- 
ward looked  upon  the  world  of  animate  nature  with 
anointed  eyes.     W^hoever   had  Child  or  Longfellow  or 


THE   CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  1 57 

Lowell  for  guides  in  literature,  acquired  keen  percep- 
tion and  a  taste  for  the  best  models.  A  mathematician 
or  astronomer  who  in  his  youth  met  Benjamin  Peirce, 
owed  an  incalculable  debt  to  that  man's  soarinc:  ima- 
gination,  no  less  than  to  his  masterly  expositions.  A 
university  that  has  no  great  men  deserves  to  have  no 
students.  Grinding  m  classics  and  mathematics  can  be 
done  anywhere. 

No  contact  with  the  immortal  energy  of  genius,  it 
is  true,  was  possible  in  Ouabbin  ;  but  the  masters  of 
the  occasional  "select  schools  "  brou2:ht  somethimr  of 
the  light  of  letters  and  science  into  that  region  ;  and 
though  the  bearers  were  young  and  inexperienced,  and 
the  light  came  in  fitful  and  feeble  flashes,  it  was  a 
brilliant  change  from  immemorial  dulness  and  gloom. 
Pupils  who  had  once  begun  with  liberal  studies  could 
never  thereafter  be  content  with  the  old  ideas.  The 
glimpses  they  got  of  the  world  of  letters  and  art  drew 
them  on  irresistibly.  The  ''mute,  inglorious  "  masters 
in  Ouabbin  and  elsewhere  probably  never  knew  what  a 
movement  they  had  begun,  nor  recognized  the  fact  that 
they  were  instruments  in  the  hands  of  Divine  Provi- 
dence in  civilizins:  a  State. 

While  a  few  pupils  —  a  very  few  —  were  reaching 
up  toward  the  light,  the  great  number  were  settled 
in  half-civilized  ignorance,  steeped  in  bucolic  thought 
and  manners,  and  cherishing  an  immitigable  prejudice, 
verging  on  hate,  toward  all  youths  with  superior  attain- 
ments and  honorable  ambition. 

Any  attempts  to  improve  the  public  schools  were 
stubbornly  resisted;  first,  by  those  whose  instinct  is  to 
oppose  all  improvements,  in  which  class  a  great  many 
well-meaning  persons  are  included;  secondly,  by  those 


158  QUABBIN 

who  objected  to  any  increase  of  taxes.  Any  talk  of 
new  methods  of  teaching  stirred  up  old-fashioned  peo- 
ple ;  and  it  was  obvious  that,  if  schools  were  main- 
tained the  whole  year,  a  much  larger  sum  of  money 
must  be  raised. 

The  second  minister  visited  the  schools  in  every 
district  ;  but  inspection,  though  it  may  reveal  defects, 
does  not  always  cure  them.  He,  with  the  leading  men 
of  the  village,  made  strenuous  efforts  to  begin  the 
work  of  reform  ;  but  the  country  people,  aided  by  the 
dead  weight  of  the  "  otherwise  minded,"  were  too 
strong.  Nothing  of  any  consequence  was  done  while 
the  second  minister  and  his  immediate  successor  re- 
mained. It  was  some  years  later  that  Horace  Mann, 
Secretary  of  the  Board  of  Education,  accomplished  the 
work  which  has  immortalized  him, — the  reorganization 
of  the  school  system  of  Massachusetts ;  and  it  was  in 
the  reign  of  the  fourth  minister  of  Quabbin  that  the 
new  influences  were  felt  in  town-meetings,  and  the 
public  schools  began  to  be  more  worthy  of  an  intelli- 
gent people. 

The  second  minister  had  some  disagreeable  experi- 
ences. The  knocker  of  his  front  door  was  often  vio- 
lently pulled  at  night,  and  when  the  door  was  opened 
no  one  was  found  there.  One  day,  being  a  member 
of  the  town  committee,  he  visited  the  central  district 
scliool.  A  boy  young  in  years,  but  precocious  in  mis- 
chief, continually  disturbed  the  recitations,  and  was 
daring  as  well  as  fertile  in  expedients.  The  teacher 
seemed  unable  to  keep  the  little  rebel  quiet,  and  at 
last  the  minister  was  incautious  enough  to  take  the 
matter  in  hand.  "  Come  here  !"  he  exclaimed,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  the  offender.      "  Is  the  examination  to  be 


THE   CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  I  59 

interrupted  by  one  bad  boy  ?  "  The  boy  came  into  the 
centre  of  the  room,  unabashed,  and  grinning  like  a  Ht- 
tle  fiend.  "■  Are  you  going  to  be  quiet  ? "  No  answer 
but  a  defiant  blaze  in  the  eyes.  ''  Will  you  promise  to 
be  quiet  ?  "  The  boy  was  still  silent,  but  glowing  with 
temper.  The  minister  took  him  by  the  shoulder,  made 
him  crouch  upon  the  floor,  and  then,  taking  his  chair, 
put  it  over  the  boy  so  that  he  was  enclosed  as  in  a 
cage,  and  sat  down  in  it.  The  fact  that  he  could  be 
easily  put  under  a  chair  showed  how  small  the  boy  was. 

The  lessons  were  resumed,  and  there  was  quiet,  ex- 
cept for  occasional  ''  snickers  "  at  the  grimaces  made 
by  the  imprisoned  culprit.  The  minster's  hand  hung 
carelessly  at  his  side.  Suddenly  he  started  up  and  ut- 
tered a  cry  of  pain  that  rang  through  the  room.  The 
boy  had  bitten  the  back  of  his  hand  until  the  teeth  met 
under  the  skin,  and  blood  was  flowing  profusely.  The 
hand  was  bound  with  a  handkerchief,  and  the  minis- 
ter went  on  with  the  examination  as  if  nothins:  had 
happened. 

There  was  another  trait  of  savagery  lingering  in  the 
time  of  the  second  minister, — the  wanton  destruction 
of  animal  life. 

The  brooks  were  full  of  spotted  trout ;  dace  played  in 
the  swirling  water  below  the  dam  ;  perch  and  roach 
swarmed  in  the  pond ;  in  the  deep  and  dark  places  were 
horn-pouts  and  eels;  snouted  pickerel  lurked  under  the 
lily-pads  of  the  cove;  and  in  the  West  Branch  suckers 
were  speared  on  spring  nights  by  the  light  of  pitch-pine 
torches.  Nothing  so  exciting  or  picturesque  attends 
the  young  fisherman  to-day ;  the  streams  are  mostly 
depopulated,  and  it  is  sad  for  the  boys. 

Moreover,  in  the  old  times,   minks   antl   musquashes 


l60  QUABBIN 

frequented  the  rivers,  and  were  caught  in  steel  traps, 
baited  with  sweet  apple.  Expert  sportsmen  snared 
pi2;eons  and  partridges,  and  shot  foxes,  squirrels,  rab- 
bits, and  wild  ducks.  There  were  still  plenty  of  rac- 
coons, and  there  were  traditions  of  wild  turkeys,  but 
few,  if  any,  of  the  latter  remained  sixty  years  ago. 

The  wanton  destruction  of  life  took  place  in  the  an- 
nual "bird-hunt,"  generally  set  for  Old  Election  Day. 
These  were  matches  between  sportsmen  ("hunters") 
of  adjoining  towns,  a  specified 'number  on  each  side.  A 
day  was  appointed  for  the  meet,  to  which  each  party 
brousfht  a  has;  of  heads  of  birds  and  of  small  wild  ani- 
mals.  The  creatures  might  be  shot  anywhere,  but  only 
by  members  of  the  company,  and  on  the  day  or  days 
specified  in  the  agreement.  Each  large  head  was 
counted  for  so  much,  according  to  size  and  rarity  ;  the 
smaller  kinds  were  simply  numbered.  When  the  bags 
had  been  counted,  the  losing  party  entertained  the 
winners  at  a  supper  and  frolic  at  the  tavern. 

When  the  bags  were  opened,  and  the  heaps  of  sev- 
ered and  bloody  heads  were  spread  out,  it  was  a  sight 
to  make  a  compassionate  man  heart-sick.  There  were 
heads  of  blue] ays,  squirrels,  song-sparrows,  copper- 
crowns,  orioles,  minks,  scarlet  tanagers,  woodpeckers, 
foxes,  robins  (red-breasted  migratory  thrushes),  yellow 
birds,  swallows,  finches,  crows,  red-winged  blackbirds, 
wood-pigeons,  whippoorwills,  hawks,  kingfishers,  wood- 
chucks,  eagles,  owls,  wagtails,  herons,  snipe,  dippers, 
woodcoc?ks,  wrens,  and  many  more  ;  every  bright  eye 
closed,  and  the  beautiful  plumage  dabbled  and  crushed. 
It  was  sad  for  any  reflecting  person,  even  a  child,  to 
think  of  the  blotting-out  of  so  much  beauty,  the 
extinction  of  gayety  and  song.     And  these   hundreds 


THE  CAMPAIGN  BEGUN  l6l 

of  bright  creatures,  the  joy  of  field,  garden,  and  orch- 
ard, were  blown  to  pieces  with  shot,  to  decide  which  of 
two  sets  of  young  ruffians  should  pay  for  the  supper 
and  drink  of  the  other. 

This  destruction  had  gone  on  for  years,  and  the 
region  for  many  years  after  was  not  peopled  with  birds 
as  in  the  early  days.  Longfellow  had  not  then  written 
"The  Birds  of  Killingworth ;"  but  the  humane  spirit  of 
that  poem  was  innate  in  the  heart  of  the  minister,  and 
he  was  unsparing  in  his  denunciation  of  the  useless 
cruelty.  For  once  the  popular  feeling  was  with  him, 
and  the  "  bird-hunters  "  found  they  could  not  pursue 
their  sport  without  reprobation.  All  kindly  people, 
even  children,  mourned  the  gay  minstrels  ;  farmers 
missed  their  friends,  the  destroyers  of  worms  and 
insects  in  garden  and  orchard;  and  most  young  men  in 
time  were  ashamed  of  the  slaughter.  Nearly  all  birds 
in  Massachusetts  are  now  protected  by  law^^hut  public 
sentiment  is  a  still  more  efficient  safeguard  ;  and  in 
Quabbin  public  sentiment  on  this  subject  was  in  great 
part  the  creation  of  this  tender-hearted  parish  minister. 


1 62  QUAE  BIN 


CHAPTER    XVIII 

SUNDAY    OBSERVANCES 

Preparations  for  the  day  of  rest  were  begun  the 
day  previous.  Farmers  made  ready,  as  far  as  possible, 
for  the  care  of  their  animals,  and  got  a  supply  of  wood 
into  the  house.  Women  baked  bread  and  prepared 
dishes,  and  attended  to  darning  and  mending,  so  as  to 
leave  a  minimum  of  work  for  the  holy  day.  In  the 
evening  the  Bible  lessons  were  studied,  and  at  the 
close  diligent  children  were  allowed  roasted  apples 
and  fresh^  cider. 

In  the  morning  the  household  was  called  betimes, 
and  all  underwent  an  energetic  scrubbing  ;  after  which 
special  attention  was  paid  to  frizzled  hair,  and  putting 
on  clean  clothing.  After  breakfast  came  prayers,  and 
then  the  young  people  read  the  Bible  or  studied  the 
Catechism  for  an  hour.  The  morning  service  v/as  at 
half-past  ten  o'clock,  and  lasted  until  noon,  or  a  little 
later.  Afterward  came  the  Sunday-school  ;  and  the 
lessons,  with  comments  and  exhortations,  occupied  an 
hour.  Then  those  who  lived  near  enough  to  the  meet- 
ing-house hurried  home  for  a  lunch.  This  consisted  of 
bread  and  milk,  or  bread  and  butter,  with  a  section 
(60°)  of  pie,  and  some  fruit  preserves  or  apple-sauce. 
Those  who  lived  at  a  distance  brought  luncheon  bas- 
kets, and  ate  (solemnly)  sitting  in  their  pews,  or,  in  cold 


SUA'DAV  OBSERPAXCES  1 63 

weather,  by  the  stoves.  The  afternoon  service  began 
at  two  o'clock,  and  lasted  an  hour  and  a  half.  Then 
there  was  a  dispersion,  for  there  was  nothing  more  to 
be  done  at  the  meeting-house.  Not  that  the  observ- 
ances were  finished,  by  any  means.  Arriving  home, 
each  family  sat  down  between  four  and  five  o'clock  to 
a  repast,  mostly  cold,  the  principal  dish  having  been 
cooked  the  day  before.  At  seven  o'clock  there  was  a 
prayer-meeting  in  a  hall  illumined  by  smoky  whale-oil 
lamps  ;  and  this  continued  according  to  circumstances, 
—  such  as  the  number  and  length  of  the  prayers,  and 
the  fervor  and  fluency  of  exhortation.  There  was  no 
rule  of  procedure,  and  a  favorite  hymn  might  be 
expected  at  any  moment. 

All  the  intervals  between  services  were  occupied  by 
religious  reading  or  study.  When  night  fell  at  last,  it 
seemed  to  children  that  the  bell  in  the  meeting-house 
steeple  had  been  ringing  all  day ;  that  services  had 
been  going  on  all  day,  and  that  they  had  read  the  Bible 
and  Catechism  all  day. 

Besides  the  four  Sunday  services,  there  was  regularly 
a  week-day  prayer-meeting,  and  a  monthly  concert  of 
prayer  for  missionaries.  At  this  last  there  were  read 
extracts  from  the  Missionary  Herald,  —  being  experi- 
ences among  the  heathen,  —  and  the  h}-mn,  *'  From 
Greenland's  Icy  Mountains,"  was  always  sung  with 
great  enthusiasm. 

The  people,  old  and  young,  were  kept  well  up  to  their 
work.  In  strict  households  Sunday  was  the  most  fatigu- 
ing and  the  most  wearisome  day  of  the  week.  It  was 
not  in  any  sense  a  day  of  rest.  The  constant  reading 
of  the  Bible  b)'  young  people,  as  a  task,  destroyed  all 
sense  of  its  power  and  beaut)'  ;  and  in  committing  texts 


1 64  QUABBIISr 

to  memory  the  only  care  was  for  accuracy ;  the  mean- 
ing and  the  lesson  of  a  passage  were  scarcely  thought 
of.  There  was  not  much  relief  when  children  turned 
fiom  the  Bible  and  Catechism  to  the  Sunday-school 
library,  a  dreary  collection  of  books  kept  at  the  meet- 
ing-house. The  most  interesting  of  them  w^ere  lives  of 
missionaries,  as  they  sometimes  gave  a  whiff  of  spicy 
breezes,  and  glimpses  of  the  romance  of  the  East.  The 
most  odious  were  biographies  of  precocious  saints, 
sickly  little  sages  of  the  nursery,  who,  because  they 
had  v/eak  chests  and  spindling  legs,  renounced  ball  and 
marbles,  and  all  the  sports  that  healthy  children  love  ; 
who  talked  of  ecstatic  experiences  and  divine  mysteries 
as  glibly  as  if  repeating  the  multiplication-table  ;  whose 
consumptive  looks  indicated  a  speedy  release  from  a 
world  in  which  they  could  never  have  borne  a  manly 
part,  and  wdio  each  left  behind  a  lying  tombstone  and  a 
pretentious  memoir  for  the  affliction  and  disgust  of 
hearty  boys. 

Bible  lessons  were  studied  in  the  Old  Testament 
quite  as  often  as  in  the  New.  It  was  a  grave  error. 
The  calmly  indecent  stories  of  Hebrew  patriarchs, 
prophets,  and  kings  were  shocking  to  the  moral  sense 
of  the  young,  who  had  been  led  to  suppose  that  justice, 
truth,  chastity,  and  honor  were  in  the  past,  the  present, 
and  future  the  same.  The  biblical  plainness  of  speech 
was  revolting.  Many  things  were  stumbled  upon  which 
were  not  understood,  and  in  regard  to  which  a  suspi- 
cion was  as  gross  and  foul  as  the  fact.  A  generous- 
minded  youth  naturally  sympathized  with  the  dusky 
Hagar  and  her  son,  and  not  at  all  with  the  bigamist 
Abraham  and  his  hoit\-toity  Sarah.  Like  the  Quaker 
boy  (Whittier),  he  could  not  see  why  David  was  a  man 


SCAD  AY  OBSERVANCES  165 

after  God's  own  heart,  since  he  was  a  man  of  war,  and 
full  of  treachery  also.  He  could  not  make  it  right  that 
the  Lord  permitted  a  lying  spirit  to  beguile  Ahab  to 
his  ruin.  In  fact,  there  were  no  end  to  the  queries, 
the  doubts,  the  incipient  rebellions,  and  the  flushes  of 
secret  shame  that  came  to  an  ingenuous  boy  who  read 
the  old  books  in  course,  and  never  skipped  a  chapter, 
verse,  or  word. 

]\Iuch  is  said  of  the  license  of  speech  in  the  drama, 
but  there  are  few  plays  in  any  language  which  contain 
as  much  that  is  shocking  as  certain  portions  of  Scrip- 
ture. The  influence  of  these  narratives,  never  meant 
for  babes,  is  especially  baneful,  because  it  forms  base 
associations  in  minds  wholly  unable  to  relegate  things 
to  their  proper  places. 

A  boy  in  Ouabbin,  some  six  or  eight  years  old,  was 
being  questioned  by  a  spruce  country  damsel  upon  the 
story  of  Rahab  the  harlot.  "  Please,  miss,"  said  he, 
"  what  is  a  harlot  .'^  " 

There  were  often  brambly  experiences  also  in  ques- 
tions bearing  on  the  Jewish  ceremonial  law. 

When  the  first  day  of  the  week,  instead  of  being  a 
blessed  day  of  rest,  is  occupied  with  hard  work,  without 
a  moment  for  a  bright  thought  or  memory  ;  when  fancy 
cannot  spread  a  pinion,  and  the  eyes  are  forbidden  to 
look  for  beauty  in  bird  or  flower  or  cloud,  that  day  is 
the  darkest  of  the  seven.  The  days,  on  the  contrary, 
that  are  not  "  hallowed  "  are  relieved  by  buoyant  spirits, 
and  ''labor  meets  delight  half  way." 

It  is  freely  admitted  how  much  the  people  of  New 
England  owe  to  Bible  study  and  religious  training  ;  the 
noble  result  cannot  be  gainsaid  ;  on  the  other  hand, 
many  got  such  a  surfeit  of  Scrii)ture  in  youth,  that   it 


1 66  QUABBIN 

required  years  to  bring  them  to  a  just  appreciation  of 
the  poetry  of  the  Psahiis,  or  of  the  philosophy  of  Job. 
A  similar  distaste  was  produced  by  the  use  in  schools 
of  "Paradise  Lost"  for  exercises  in  parsing.  The  inspi- 
ration and  splendor  of  Milton's  lines,  after  they  were 
pulled  to  thrums  in  grammatical  analysis,  departed  for- 
ever. 

It  would  be  easy  to  make  a  book  of  selections  from 
the  Old  Testament  for  the  use  of  families.  The  mate- 
rial is  abundant,  and  of  the  highest  ethical  and  literary 
value.  The  details  of  the  ceremonial  law,  and  some  of 
the  bald  narratives,  might  be  left  for  mature  readers. 
The  perusal  by  children  of  the  entire  series  of  works  as 
they  stand  is  a  source  of  evil  for  which  there  can  be  no 
compensation. 

In  those  early  days  the  meeting-house  was  warmed 
in  winter  by  two  box  stoves  set  under  the  choir  gallery, 
but  the  greater  part  of  the  interior  was  as  cold  as  the 
adjacent  graveyard.  Those  who  sat  in  the  pews  near 
the  pulpit  were  almost  at  freezing-point.  The  rigor 
was  tempered  for  women  by  the  use  of  little  foot-stoves, 
which  were  square  boxes  of  perforated  tinned  iron, 
fitted  in  wooden  frames  with  wire  handles,  and  contain- 
ins.'  small  iron  basins  filled  with  live  coals  bedded  in 
ashes.  The  foot-stove  had  not  much  warmth,  but  it 
served  as  a  foot-stool,  and  kept  the  feet  from  freezing. 
The  men  disdained  such  coddling,  and  boys  were  sup- 
posed to  be  tough  ;  but  on  cold  days  both  men  and 
boys  found  that  the  sermon  had  a  great  many  heads. 

In  summer  the  coolness  of  the  audience-room  with 
its  window-blinds  was  grateful,  but  many  hard-working 
men  furtively  dozed,  suspiciously  nodded  with  sudden, 
periodic  jerks,  and   sometimes  openly  snored.      To  be 


SC/^DAV  OBSERVAXCES  16/ 

sleepy  during  sermon-time  was  the  universal  failing. 
It  was  the  custom  on  warm  Sundays  to  carry  sprigs  of 
caraway,  or  dill,  or  coriander,  to  nibble  at  when  the  eye- 
lids inclined  to  droop.  The  efforts  to  ward  off  slum- 
ber were  frequently  amusing.  A  man  would  often  be 
seen  straightening  up  with  a  surprised  look  when  his 
wife  gave  his  elbow  a  nudge.  One  old  man  had  what 
appeared  to  be  an  automatic  alarm.  The  top  of  his 
head  was  bald,  and  the  long,  thin  hair  at  the  sides  was 
brought  up  and  braided  in  a  central  line  from  crown  to 
forehead,  and,  along  with  it,  a  something  that  looked 
like  a  shoestring.  When  he  nodded,  the  ends  of  the 
string  fell  in  his  eyes,  whereupon  he  waked  and  re- 
stored the  equilibrium.  Twenty  times  in  the  course  of 
a  sermon  his  head  fell,  and  as  often  the  dangling  ends 
of  string  restored  him  to  consciousness  and  propriety. 

One  fat  old  fellow,  who  looked  as  if  he  would  dis- 
solve if  he  should  venture  to  take  a  very  hot  bath, 
seemed  always  in  luxurious  ease,  since  any  part  of  him 
would  have  served  for  a  cushion.  His  chin  ran  over 
in  successive  folds  upon  his  cravat,  and  the  cravat  was 
pressed  down  to  his  broad  chest.  Meanwhile,  his  eyes 
softly  closed,  then  half  opened,  then  closed  again,  as  if 
controlled  by  some  interior  spring  independent  of  his 
volition.  He  slept  while  the  choir  sang,  slept  stand- 
ing while  the  minister  prayed,  and  seated  while  he 
preached.  It  was  not  only  his  soft-lidded  eyes  that 
slept ;  he  slept  all  over  ;  and  the  gospel  rain  fell  uj^on 
him  soothingly,  like  showers  on  the  roof  of  Morpheus. 
It  was  averred  that  he  had  been  seen  to  doze  in  the 
slow  and  closely  packed  procession  that  moved  down 
the  aisle  at  the  close  of  service. 

The  old  fellow  with  ugly  and  grotesque  features,  he 


l68  QUABBIN 

whose  head  rested  for  so  many  years  against  the  wliite 
pilaster  in  the  west  gallery,  did  his  share  of  sleeping. 
The  sharp  and  grave  lawyer  sometimes  nodded.  In 
fact,  there  were  few,  except  the  deacons  and  certain 
alert  and  sprightly  women,  who  did  not  occasionally 
close  their  eyes  after  ''  sixthly." 

The  choir  numbered  twenty  or  thirty  persons,  and 
was  recruited  every  two  or  three  years  from  the  sing- 
ing-school. There  was  a  peripatetic  master  who  came 
at  initervals  to  teach  beginners  in  the  science,  and  to 
revive  the  interest  and  practice  of  the  choir.  Like 
most  singing-teachers,  he  had  one  of  those  perfunctory 
voices  which  sound  equally  forced  in  every  part ;  but  his 
violin  was  true  and  smooth.  He  brought  out  fairly 
good  results  as  to  harmony,  but  of  individual  culture 
not  much  could  be  said.  Soldiers  are  best  drilled  in 
squads  ;  singers,  singly.  He  had  fiery  red  hair,  and 
the  keen  enthusiasm  which  generally  goes  with  it,  and 
for  some  reason  was  called  ''Colonel."  It  was  his 
custom  in  his  schools  to  vary  the  monotony  of  psalmody 
by  the  occasional  singing  of  English  glees,  such  as 
"Herein  Cool  Grot,"  "Hail,  Smiling  Morn,"  and  others, 
dear  to  many  generations.  Had  one  of  the  choir  in 
Ouabbin  been  asked  to  sing  a  solo,  the  attack,  the 
tone,  or  pronunciation,  might  have  caused  a  smile  upon 
a  cultivated  audience  ;  but  when  the  choir  was  in  prac- 
tice, the  solid  harmony  was  not  without  charm.  It  was 
in  set  hymns,  like  Dr.  Madan's  "Before  Jehovah's 
Awful  Throne,"  that  the  best  effects  were  produced. 
The  choir  had  its  ups  and  downs ;  singers  fell  off, 
either  from  age  or  removal  ;  practice  was  given  up,  and 
the  style  wofully  deteriorated  ;  then  would  come  a  new 
session  of  the  singing-school,  and,  at  the  end  of  it,  the 


Sl/A'DAV  OBSERVANCES  1 69 

colonel  would  lead  the  new  flock  of  warblers  into  the 
meeting-house,  and  the  people  were  astonished  with 
the  renewed  life  and  energy. 

In  remoter  times  the  choir-leader  used  to  give  the 
pitch  from  his  tuning-fork  with  a  brusque  "  fum,  s'la 
fum-m-m  !  "  Afterward  there  were  instruments, — a 
flute,  bass-viol,  or  double  bass,  and  sometimes  a  grum- 
bling bassoon  or  serpent. 

The  choir-leader  was  chosen  or  approved  by  the 
parish  committee  ;  and 'one  Sunday  when  a  change  had 
been  agreed  upon,  but,  by  inadvertence,  notice  had  not 
been  given,  both  the  old  leader  and  the  new  stood  up 
when  the  morning  psalm  was  read,  and  gave  out  each 
a  different  tune,  and  sounded  a  different  pitch.  For  a 
moment  it  seemed  that  the  frame  of  the  universe  had 
cracked  ;  but  the  small  boys  thought  it  was  great  fun. 
The  new  leader,  however,  had  the  battalion  with  him, 
and  the  voice  of  the  superseded  and  crestfallen  one 
was  speedily  drowned. 

Sixty  years  ago  the  music  of  the  Bridgewater  Col- 
lection, or  Billings  and  Holden,  was  in  fashion,  and 
there  were  frequent  fugues,  noisy  and  perverted  reminis- 
cences of  Handel,  or  at  times  the  quaint  and  melan- 
choly strains  of  Ravenscroft,  or  the  reverent  and 
tender  harmonies  of  Purcell.  After  that  came  the 
Boston  Academy's  Collection,  consisting  of  music 
drawn  from  all  schools  and  all  sources,  including  gems 
from  operas,  symphonies,  and  sonatas;  but  all  was  tem- 
pered into  monotony  by  cutting  out  any  melodic  orna- 
ments, and  by  suppressing  anything  rich  or  inventive  in 
harmony.  It  was  a  joy  to  sopranos  to  find  melodies 
without  surprises,  that  would  sing  of  themselves.  And 
the  basses,  too,  all  knew  what  was  coming  ;  their  track 


1 70  QUABDIN 

was  no  more  intricate  than  that  of  a  blind  horse  in  a 
mill.  Every  chord  was  of  the  tonic  or  dominant,  with 
simple  mutations  and  invariable  terminations.  Such 
tunes  had  a  cloying  sweetness  and  even  flow.  Then, 
again,  the  people  of  Ouabbin  had  not  heard  operas  ; 
and  melodies  from  *'  The  Magic  Flute,"  "  Don  Gio- 
vanni," and  *' Der  Frieschiitz,"  were  for  them  as  sacred 
as  any.  Zerlina's  '' Batti  batti''  became  indissolubly 
linked  with  the  hymn,  "  Saviour,  Source  of  Every 
Blessing."  As  Wesley  said,  ''It  was  a  pity  that  the 
Devil  should  have  all  the  best  music." 

The  leading  soprano  was  a  broad-chested  and  buxom 
young  lady,  with  a  clear  and  powerful  voice,  and  little 
delicacy  in  phrasing.  She  used  to  run  over  the  high 
places,  especially  when  she  had  a  line  to  sing  alone, 
like  a  kid  capering  over  the  rocks.  The  voice  of  the 
leading  contralto  was  as  soft  and  deep  as  the  cooing  of  a 
dove, — a  rich  and  velvety  voice.  When  the  two  women 
sang  a  brief  duct, —  the  chorus  waiting  to  pounce  in 
with  a  roar, — what  a  silence  in  the  meeting-house! 
The  contralto  held  her  own,  without  undue  self-asser- 
tion ;  the  soprano  took  the  lead  with  a  dash,  like  the 
enterprising  person  she  was,  and  the  people  generally 
agreed  that  she  was  a  great  singer. 

As  time  went  on,  although  there  was  less  rudeness  in 
performance,  there  was  a  decline  in  the  character  of  the 
compositions  sung.  The  old  music  was  not  refined  and 
not  artistic,  but  it  had  spirit  and  energy  ;  while  the 
adaptations  which  followed  were  frequently  vapid  and 
colorless  changes  rung  on  few  notes,  with  harmonies  so 
little  varied,  that  the  impression  made  by  one  tune  was 
just  like  that  of  every  other.  The  jerky  Zeunerian 
school  had  Gway  in  many  places,  but  never  prevailed  in 
Ouabbin. 


SUADAV  OBSERVANCES  lyi 

On  the  whole,  modern  church  music  has  had  the 
slenderest  relation  to  art.  There  are  well-defined 
schools  of  sacred  music, — those  of  the  Catholic  and 
Episcopalian  services,  and  the  old  German  chorals. 
Each  is  adapted  to  the  required  uses.  But  the  patch- 
work, hurdy-gurdy  school,  full  of  reminiscences  of 
operas,  negro-songs,  revivalist  melodies,  and  instru- 
mental gems,  with  all  manner  of  unsaintly  associa- 
tions, and  with  no  fitness  to  any  devout  sentiment, — 
that  ''  school  "  which  has  long  infested  New  England 
and  Scotland,  should  now  be  put  under  ban.  It  is  not 
artistic,  and  it  is  a  libel  upon  the  worship  of  God. 

While  upon  the  subject  of  church  music,  it  may  be 
well  to  mention  a  memorable  concert  given  in  the  meet- 
ing-house during  the  reign  of  the  third  minister,  to  cele- 
brate the  conclusion  of  a  siuging-school.  A  large 
number  of  new  faces  appeared  in  the  singers'  seats, 
for  the  school  had  been  fully  attended,  and  the  drill 
had  been  long  and  thorough.  The  colonel  was  in  great 
form,  and  looked  proudly  over  his  forces,  among  which 
were  some  half-dozen  instrumentalists. 

There  were  the  usual  anthems  and  choruses  attacked 
and  carried  through  with  stormy  bravery,  in  which  the 
sopranos  and  basses  (as  usual)  made  the  lion's  share 
of  noise.  There  was  an  instrumental  interlude,  in 
which  two  flutes  had  the  leading  part,  partly  because 
the  hesitation  of  the  other  players  sometimes  left  un- 
certain gaps.  And  there  was  an  English  trio,  ''  When 
Time  was  Entwining  the  Garland  of  Years,"  in  which 
the  deep,  cooing  notes  of  the  contralto  were  deliglitful. 
The  sensation  of  the  evening,  however,  was  caused  by 
the  performances  of  a  double-bass  plavcr,  imported 
for  the  occasion.     His  legitimate  work  was  excellent, 


1/2  QUABBIN 

for  he  produced  firm  and  smooth  tones,  but  his  pride 
was  in  showy  solos.  A  space  was  made  for  him  in 
the  front  of  the  gallery,  so  that  he  could  be  seen  by 
the  audience  below.  Those  who  remember  Bottesini 
will  have  an  idea  of  the  effects  produced.  The  hero  of 
this  concert  was  not  a  Bottesini,  but  he  was  clever  and 
comic.  He  covered  all  the  range  of  expression  from 
the  serious  to  the  ridiculous,  and  he  imitated  various 
animals,  as  well  as  instruments  from  a  great  organ-pipe 
to  a  picolo.  Now  and  then  would  come  out  a  passage 
of  masculine  beauty,  followed  by  strange  staccato  leaps 
and  plunges,  or  by  swift,  fantastic,  or  chromatic  scales. 

In  action  he  was  a  pantomimist ;  his  body,  head,  and 
arms  were  in  violent  motion,  like  those  of  a  jointed 
manikin  in  exercise,  as  he  bent  far  over  his  huge  in- 
strument, or  darted  upjvhilc  his  fingers  trip]:)cd  along 
the  strings.  The  muscles  of  his  face  were  tense,  and 
he  plied  the  stout  bow  like  a  fiend.  If  hearers  were 
moved  to  admiration  at  times  by  a  grand  strain,  they 
were  sure  to  laugh  the  next  minute  at  some  tripping 
dance  music,  or  rasping  eccentricity,  or  grotesque  imi- 
tation ;  but  he  always  closed  with  harmonics,  round 
and  fine  as  the  highest  notes  of  a  violin.  Before  he 
finished,  he  had  captivated  everybody,  and  the  sense  of 
comedy  so  overpowered  the  sacred  associations  of  the 
place,  that  there  was  a  universal  ripple  of  laughter. 

A  tumultuous  chorus,  with  plentiful  hosannas, 
brought  tlie  concert  to  an  end.  The  boys  thought 
the  show  better  tlian  a  menagerie. 

The  minister  sat  at  the  communion-table  in  front  of 
the  pulpit,  and  appeared  to  be  satisfied  with  himself 
and  the  concert.  I^ut  the  deacons  were  deeply  stirred, 
and  they  had  a  shoit  conference  as  they  were  leaving 
the  meeting-house.     Said  Deacon  Rawson, — 


SUNDAY  OBSERVANCES  1/3 

*'  Fer  my  part,  I  feel  'shamed  fer  hevin'  seen  an' 
heered  these  goin's  on,  thet  I  du." 

"An'  in  the  haouse  o'  God,  tii,"  added  Deacon 
Dodge. 

"It  hed  a'most  orter  be  new  dedicated,"  suggested 
Deacon  Holyoke. 

"  Haow  could  we  look  fer  a  revivle  o'  trew  religion 
ter  foller  sech  a  monkey  show?"  said  Deacon  Rawson. 

"  An'  thet  air  colonel,"  said  Deacon  Dodge,  "  told 
us  'twas  ter  be  a  pufformance  o'  sacred  mewsic,  same 
ez  the  singin'  on  a  Sahberday." 

"  Ef  a  soul  was  called  on  to  give  its  'count  ter-night, 
artcr  thet  foolishness  !  "  said  Deacon  Rawson  with  a 
solemn  sigh. 

Deacon  Holyoke  observed  tentatively,  "  Them  air 
fleutes  played  well." 

"But  why,"  asked  Deacon  Rawson,  "  sh'd  they  go  a- 
tweedlin'  like  two  sparrers,  flutt'rin'  an'  tumblin'  raound 
one  nuther  in  the  air  ? " 

"The  beatenest  thing,"  said  Deacon  Dodge,  "was 
that  feller  'ith  the  big  bass-viol." 

"  An'  ter  call  thet  sacred  mewsic  ! "  said  Deacon 
Rawson. 

"  He  made  it  beller  like  a  bull,  or  squeal  like  a  pig, 
jest  ez  he'd  a  min'  tew,"  said  Deacon  Holyoke. 

"  An'  ag'in,"  added  Deacon  Dodge,  "  'twas  like  a  saw 
croin'  thru  a  los;." 

"  An'  then,"  groaned  Deacon  Rawson,  "  it  actilly 
dahnced  a  jig  —  in  the  haouse  o'  God!" 

"  An'  he  kep'  a-wigglin'  up  ter  the  top  o'  the  strings, 
an'  then  he  clipper-clappered  all  the  way  daown,"  ob- 
served Deacon  Holyoke. 

"  An'  he  didn't  seem  ter  hev  teched  nothin',  'cept  ez 
a  fly  might  a-breshed  it,"  added  Deacon  Dodge. 


174  QUAE  BIN 

"  An'  he  kcp'  a-bobbin'  his  head,"  continued  Deacon 
Holyoke,  **  an'  reach  in'  'way  over,  an'  sawin'  away." 

'*An'  them  noises!"  said  Deacon  Dodge. 

**  Like  a  pig  under  a  gate,"  suggested  Deacon  Hol- 
yoke. 

*'  An'  ag'in,  like  a  donkey  brayin',"  added  Deacon 
Dodge. 

Deacon  Rawson  was  silently  looking  at  his  brethren 
with  astonishment. 

Here  Deacon  Dodge  looked  furtively  at  Deacon  Hol- 
yoke, suspending  a  chuckle  meanwhile.  The  thin  lips 
of  Deacon  Holyoke  showed  the  twisted  corner  of  a  smile. 
Deacon  Dodge  with  averted  face  was  beginning  to  grin. 
When  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  Deacon  Holyoke,  there 
was  a  mutual  twinkle,  and  both  laughed  gently. 

Said  Deacon  Rawson,  *'  Deekin  Dodge,  be  yeou 
laafijL  'bout  this  disecration  o'  God's  haouse .''  An' 
Deekin  Holyoke,  be  yeou  ?  " 

''  No,"  answered  Deacon  Dodge  ;  **  I  was  on'y  a-la'a- 
fin'  at  thinkin'  o'  that  air  noise  like  a  pig;  'twas  so 
nateral,"  and  he  guffawed  again. 

"  An'  at  thet  air  bray,"  added  Deacon  Holyoke. 
'*  'Twas  ez  nateral  ez  yeour  voice."  And  he  joined 
again  in  the  laugh.  "Howsever,  Deekin  Rawsin," 
he  added,  "  what's  done  can't  be  ondonc.  An'  then, 
the  colonel  don't  b'long  tu  aour  church,  ner  the  bass- 
fiddler  nuther." 

*'Wal,"  said  Deacon  Rawson  severely,  '^  the  colonel 
orter  be  talked  tu,  so  's  't  he  won't  du  so  next  time  —  in 
God's  haouse  ;  an'  ef  nobody  else  won't  du  it,  I  will." 

Meanwhile  the  colonel,  purring  like  a  great  yellow 
cat,  was  having  a  pleasant  talk  with  the  minister,  who 
appeared   to    be    pleased   with    everything.     Somehow 


SUNDAY  OBSERVANCES  1 75 

Deacon  Rawson  let  the  offender  pass  without  the 
threatened  admonition. 

As  Deacon  Dodge  and  Deacon  Holyoke  were  parting, 
thev  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Deacon  Dodge  with  a  smile  said,  "  Thet  pig!"  while 
Deacon  Holyoke  beatifically  replied,  "  Thet  donkey!" 
and  they  went  their  ways. 

Said  Deacon  Rawson,  left  alone,  "  Wal,  I  ra'aly 
b'lieve  Deekin  Dodge  an'  Deekin  Holyoke  ain't  a  mite 
sorry  to  hev  heered  that  fiddler  in  the  haouse  of  God ! 
Wal,  I  must  say  he  was  funny." 


176  OUABBIN 


CHAPTER    XIX 

TRANSITION 

The  second  minister  had  fought  the  good  fight  al- 
most single-handed,  and  would  have  been  entitled  to 
adopt  as  his  own  the  triumphant  words  of  the  Apostle 
Paul.  He  had  accomplished  much,  and  it  had  cost  him 
dear.  The  church  was  awakened  from  formalism,  and 
was  a  moral  force  to  be  counted  upon.  Public  senti- 
ment was  becoming  strong  against  drunkenness,  and 
the  sale  of  spirits  had  ceased,  except  at  the  tavern 
bar,  —  a  place  to  which  few  respectable  men  ventured 
to  go  for  drams.  The  meeting-house  bore  witness  to 
the  general  improvement,  shining  in  fresh  paint  with- 
out, and  newly  decorated  within.  The  advocates  of 
better  schools  began  to  take  courage,  and  the.  main 
roads  were  a  trifle  less  stony.  Altogether,  Ouabbin 
was  looking  up.  Of  course  much  remained  to  be  done. 
It  was  only  the  dawn  that  appeared,  not  the  new  day. 
l^ut  as  long  as  Ouabbin  exists,  those  who  know  its 
history  will  do  honor  to  the  memory  of  its  brave  and 
devoted  second  minister. 

The  strain  had  tried  his  spirit  and  broken  his  health; 
in  nine  years  he  was  "worn  out,"  and  he  resigned  his 
charge.  It  might  have  been  ]:)()etical  justice  if  he 
could  have  remained  to  enjoy  the  grateful  love  of  a 
people  for  whom  lie  had  sacrificed  so  much.     The  sal- 


TRANSITION  177 

ary  could  not  have  been  a  temptation,  as  it  never 
exceeded  one  thousand  dollars.  And  then  a  man  of 
decided  character  is  always  liable  to  wound  the  sen- 
sibilities of  some,  without  being  aware  of  it ;  and, 
besides,  he  necessarily  makes  enemies  by  engaging  in 
contests.  Those  whom  the  minister  had  faced  with 
such  intrepidity,  and  whom  he  had  blistered  with 
denunciation,  would  never  have  been  heartily  recon- 
ciled to  him.  No  ;  after  the  hard  work  of  the  pioneer 
was  done,  some  milder-mannered  and  more  plausible 
man,  with  not  one-half  of  his  intellectual  and  moral 
worth,  would  succeed  to  the  territory  he  had  gained, 
and  be  far  more  popular.  "  Other  men  have  labored, 
and  ye  have  entered  into  their  labors." 

An  incident  which  occurred  early  in  the  following 
reign  (Minister  III.)  showed  that  the  fire  of  old  enmity 
was  still  smouldering  and  not  extinct.  There  had 
been  prosecutions  for  the  illegal  sale  of  liquors,  and 
for  kindred  misdemeanors,  which  were  bitterly  resented 
by  those  implicated  ;  and  there  were  threats  of  reprisals 
which  would  make  the  people  of  Ouabbin  "sorry." 
But  no  one  thought  seriously  of  the  menaces,  since 
angry  people  often  bluster  without  any  fixed  purpose. 

One  Saturday  at  dusk,  a  man  who  was  passing  the 
meeting-house  observed  something  unusual,  —  a  small 
square  of  darkness  in  the  light-gray  foundation.  He 
went  nearer,  and  saw  that  the  end  of  one  of  the  oblong 
stones  had  been  pushed  in,  leaving  an  opening  under 
the  building.  A  train  of  thought  shot  like  lightning 
through  his  brain,  and  he  went  away  for  a  lantern. 
Upon  returning  he  made  an  exploration,  and  found 
within  easy  reach  a  fuse,  and  beyond  it  a  cask.  Keep- 
ing the  lantern  well  away,  he  succeeded  in  pulling  out 


i;8  QUABBhY 

the  cask,  and  found  it  contained  gunpowder!  The 
horror  of  the  discovery  made  his  good  sense  forsake 
him ;  instead  of  leaving  the  cask,  and  cutting  or  wet- 
ting the  fuse,  and  setting  a  watch  to  catch  any  one  who 
should  come  to  light  it,  he  carried  away  the  evidence 
of  the  intended  crime ;  so  that  Ouabbin  never  knew, 
and  we  shall  never  know,  if  the  purpose  was  to  blow 
up  the  meeting-house  when  empty,  or  to  destroy  the 
congregation  during  worship,  or  simply  to  give  the 
people  a  fright.  Charity  would  favor  the  latter  suppo- 
sition, but  a  malicious  or  even  a  murderous  intention 
was  not  wholly  improbable.  Before  that  time  the  tem- 
per of  the  evil-minded  had  been  shown  by  breaking 
gates,  poisoning  pet  dogs,  shaving  the  tails  of  horses, 
and  the  like  ;  but  putting  powder  under  the  meeting- 
house was  such  a  mixture  of  murder  and  sacrilege,  that 
society  was  agitated  to  its  centre. 

Extraordinary  stories  flew  about,  growing  bigger  by 
distance.  Thus,  the  meeting-house  had  been  blown 
up  with  five  barrels  of  cannon  powder ;  the  steeple 
had  leaped  into  the  air,  and  fallen  point  downward  into 
the  pond,  and  remained  sticking  there;  a  man  had  been 
caught  with  a  lighted  torch,  creeping  toward  the  cav- 
ity ;  a  fuse  had  been  found  partially  burned,  and  provi- 
dentially extinguished  ;  a  well-known  criminal  had  been 
seen  prowling  about  under  the  horse-sheds  ;  and  a 
wagon  (presumably  for  the  escape  of  the  Guy  Fawkes 
after  the  explosion)  had  been  seen  waiting  in  the  edge 
of  the  village. 

The  discoverer  was  at  first  extolled  for  his  prompt 
action,  and  afterward  as  much  blamed  for  not  having 
allowed  the  plot  to  mature,  so  that  the  criminals  could 
have  been  convicted. 


TRANSITIOISr  179 

The  minister,  as  usual,  was  calm  and  smiling,  as  if 
entirely  satisfied  with  himself,  and  with  the  protecting 
care  of  Divine  Providence. 

This  minister  (the  third)  was  in  early  middle-age 
when  he  came  to  Quabbin.  He  was  a  man  of  good 
stature,  agreeable  presence,  and  fluent  speech.  His 
voice  was  high-pitched,  musical  in  quality,  and  with  a 
touch  of  sympathy  that  was  very  effective.  His  en- 
gaging manner  and  unfailing  good-humor  won  for  him 
universal  favor.  It  is  never  easy  to  estimate  the  depth 
of  religious  conviction  without  knowing  the  depth  of 
character,  but  this  man's  habitual  talk  was  upon  divine 
things  ;  and  in  his  pastoral  visits,  as  well  as  in  public 
worship,  his  sweetly  phrased  counsels,  the  tender  per- 
sonal interest  shown,  and  the  grace  of  every  utterance, 
made  him  appear  either  the  saintliest  of  courtiers  or 
the  courtliest  of  saints.  This  is  not  to  intimate  con- 
scious hypocrisy,  for,  as  far  as  he  knew  himself,  he 
w^as  perfectly  sincere. 

The  first  minister's  sermons  had  been  methodical  if 
unpretending,  and  were  carefully  composed,  and  gar- 
nished with  biblical  quotation.  The  second  had  gen- 
erally written  his  discourses,  but,  as  we  have  seen,  he 
could  preach  extempore  upon  a  fitting  occasion.  The 
third  seldom  took  any  notes  into  the  pulpit.  He  was 
endowed  with  such  a  gift  of  speech  that  the  love  of 
God  and  man  flowed  from  his  lips  in  smoothest  and 
finest  sentences,  and  in  tones  of  melody  that  won  most 
hearts.  Some  few  hearts  v/ere  not  won,  because  they 
were  associated  with  hard  heads. 

But  the  first  sermon  after  the  installation  was  highly 
successful,  and  almost  triumphant.  The  new  minister 
was  the  only  man  heard  up  to  that  time  in  Ouabbin 


I  So  QUABBIJV 

who  had  the  courage  to  stand  up  without  a  scrap  of 
paper,  and  who  could  pour  out  a  discourse,  without 
hesitation,  in  varying  modes  of  warning,  entreaty,  and 
ecstasy  ;  while  in  exalted  moments  a  fine,  tremulous 
thrill  winged  his  words,  giving  them  a  carrying  quality, 
like  the  notes  of  a  great  violoncellist.  For  some  days 
nothing  else  was  talked  about. 

A  well-known  old  grumbler  said,  "  Yis,  sartin,  'twas 
a  wonderful  power  o'  words  ;  they  come  right  'long, 
'thout  no  coaxin'.  Fact  is,  't  he  skimmed  over  his  sub- 
jcc'  like  a  sled  goin'  daown  hill  on  glair  ice.  But 
'pears  ez  ef  he's  laid  aout  a  good  lot  o'  work  tu  du. 
The  sleepy  brethren  is  to  be  waked  up  ;  the  cold  ones 
is  to  be  het,  an'  the  slack  an'  feeble  ones  is  to  be  stiff- 
ened up.  Then  the  prayer-meetin's  is  to  be  med  lively, 
an'  he's  to  go  f'm  haouse  ter  haouse,  lookin'  arter  the 
stray  lambs  o'  the  flock.  An'  he's  goin'  to  hev  the 
schools  reformed ;  jest  ez  ef  readin',  writin',  and 
rethemtic  wasn't  alius  the  same;  jest  ez-ef  ye  c'd 
reform  the  multiplication-table,  er  the  A  B  C's,  er  the 
Lord's  Prayer!  Howsever,  we  shell  see.  Ef  talk  c'd 
du  it,  I  sh'd  think  he  might,  fer  he's  a  master  hand  thet 
way.  But  wut  is  't  he  means  'baout  buildin'  a  railroad 
to  the  fix'd  stars }  The  railroad  daown  yander  —  I 
hain't  seen  it,  but  they  tell  me  't  's  bolted  to  the 
airth.  Yer  cajit  send  a  injine  out  'n  the  air  to  a 
star." 

"  That  was  a  figure  of  speech,"  suggested  the  school- 
master. 

*' Figger  o'  speech!  'Pears  to  me  'twas  jest  foolish- 
ness, an'  no  figgers  'baout  it.  Yer  can't  figger  on  a 
thing  thet  ain't  common-sense.  'Stid  o'  talkin'  'baout 
railroadin'  ter  the  stars,  I  sh'd  think  he  might  a  gin  us 


TRANSITION  l8l 

more  Scripter,  an'  less  pooty  talk.  I  felt  jest  like  one 
o'  my  oxen  when  he  hain't  hed  nuthin'  but  dry  straw 
to  chaw  on.  He  didn't  once  tech  on  the  decrees,  ner 
the  elect,  ner  the  lake  o'  fire  an'  brimstun." 

"But,"  said  the  schoolmaster,  "there  isn't  time  for 
everything  in  one  sermon." 

"  Wal,  'fore  I  heerd  him  I  sh'd  a-said  so  tu  ;  but,  I'm 
thinkin',  he  hed  time  fer  'baout  all  he  knows." 

This  was  almost  the  only  discordant  note  -in  the 
general  chorus  of  praise.  The  minister's  earnestness, 
his  beautiful  voice,  and  unexampled  fluency,  had  made 
a  strong  impression. 

In  the  course  of  an  impassioned  appeal,  he  had,  per- 
haps inadvertently,  made  use  of  the  boldly  figurative 
language  of  which  the  aged  grumbler  complained. 
The  passage  is  here  given  in  a  somewhat  simplified 
form,  for  it  would  be  difificult  to  follow  it  in  all  its  luxu- 
riance of  phrase. 

"  Ah,"  said  he  in  his  high-pitched  tenor,  "  the  time 
will  never  come  in  this  mortal  life  when  Christians  will 
find  nothing  to  do  for  the  blessed  service  of  their  Divine 
Lord  and  Master.  When  the  enlightened  and  reani- 
mated church  shall  have  gathered  into  its  bosom  all  the 
people  of  this  land,  and  the  folds  of  the  stars  and  stripes 
shall  be  mingled  with  the  lilies  of  the  Prince  of  peace, 
waving  over  a  regenerated  countr\' ;  when  our  foreign 
missionaries  shall  have  dethroned  the  man  of  sin,  and 
carried  by  assault  the  strongholds  of  Mohammedanism 
and  of  Paganism  ;  when  the  ancient  people  of  God  shall 
have  seen  the  light  of  the  Star  of  Bethlehem,  and  looked 
on  him  whom  they  once  doomed  to  a  shameful  death  at 
the  hands  of  Roman  legionaries  ;  when  the  isles  of  the 
sea  shall  have  been  cheered  by  the  sound  of  sweet  Sab- 


1 82  QUABBIN 

bath  bells,  and  the  dusky  Polynesian  shall  have  turned 
from  his  revolting  banquets  of  the  roasted  flesh  of  the 
heralds  of  the  cross  ;  when  in  all  parts  of  the  earth  the 
peace  of  God  shall  rest  like  sunlight  gilding  a  beautiful 
landscape,  —  ah,  then,  my  friends,  even  then,  there  will  be 
no  time  to  repose  and  fold  the  hands  !  No  ;  for  then  the 
untirins:  servants  of  God  will  look  for  other  and  wider 
fields  of  labor ;  and,  if  possible,  they  will  build  a  rail- 
road to  the  fixed  stars"  (very  high  intonation  here),  ''so 
as  to  carry  to  the  remotest  bounds  of  the  universe  the 
glad  news  of  redemption  by  Christ  Jesus." 

The  minister  apparently  moved  through  the  Lord's 
vineyard  with  a  light  heart,  and  cheerfully  fulfilled  his 
customary  duties.  He  made  calls  everywhere,  and 
greatly  delighted  women  by  petting  their  children  and 
complimenting  their  housekeeping.  It  soon  became 
known  that  he  was  fond  of  tea,  and  every  matron 
hastened  to  make  him  a  cup  on  his  arrival.  While  he 
sat  balancing  a  teaspoon,  and  looking  too  radiant  for  a 
being  of  flesh  and  blood,  he  had  a  store  of  sweet  sen- 
tences to  utter,  assorted  sizes  and  flavors,  and  left 
the  household  to  wonder  at  an  eloquence  which  never 
ran  dry. 

He  visited  the  schools  regularly,  and  was  the  most 
agreeable  of  committee-men.  He  listened  to  the  les- 
sons repeated  by  rote,  and  never  stopped  to  test  the 
pupils'  knowledge.  He  always  had  some  pleasant  story 
to  tell,  and  his  counsels  were  full  of  encouragement. 
He  had  scarcely  need  to  flatter,  since  his  face  and 
voice  were  the  expression  of  compliment.  Inexperi- 
enced teachers  were  entranced,  and  the  boys  said  his 
talk  was  "  ez  slick  ez  grease."  Some  older  pupils  were 
dissatisfied  with  the  lack  of  critical  examination  ;  they 


TRANSITION'  1 83 

were,  a  few  of  them,  anlbitious  of  undertaking  higher 
studies,  and  longed  for  a  helping  hand,  or  a  suggestion. 
Some  were  privately  delving  in  Latin  grammar,  in 
algebra  or  geometry,  and  imagined  that  so  learned  a 
man  as  the  minister  might  give  them  good  advice  ;  but 
neither  they  nor  any  in  Quabbin  ever  knew  of  what 
languages  or  sciences  he  was  master. 

Every  day  he  was  abroad,  distributing  smiles  and 
kind  words  ;  and  those  who  lived  near  him  often  won- 
dered when  he  found  time  to  study.  Among  his  other 
gifts  was  an  unfailing  memory  of  persons  and  names  ; 
and  in  a  little  time  the  families  were  so  well  known  to 
him  that,  upon  meeting  any  man,  he  could  inquire  as 
to  all  the  members  of  his  household  without  ever  mak- 
ing a  mistake.  This  faculty,  besides  being  serviceable 
to  a  public  man,  is  the  most  insinuating  kind  of 
flattery.  People  are  secretly  pleased  to  be  promptly 
remembered. 

The  prayer-meetings  were  more  animated,  and  more 
entertaining  (if  the  word  be  allowed),  because  they  were 
conducted  in  a  smoothly  superficial  way.  There  was 
no  "deep  ploughing,"  no  searching  of  consciences  with 
a  probe,  nothing  to  make  people  feel  uncomfortable. 
When  the  minister  asked  a  brother  to  'Mead  in  prayer," 
it  was  in  the  gracious  tone  of  a  monarch  addressing  a 
court  favorite.  His  exuberant  style  had  been  naturally 
imitated  ;  and  the  extempore  prayers  and  exhortations 
of  the  younger  brethren  became  as  flowery  as  Solo- 
mon's Songs.  The  deacons,  however,  were  too  fully 
committed  to  old  forms  and  usages  to  change. 

After  the  lapse  of  some  months,  the  deacons  had  a 
conference  quite  by  chance.  It  is  proper  to  state  that 
the  selection  of  this  minister  was  not   so   much  clue  to 


1 84  QUABBIN 

them  as  to  certain  rich  and  influential  men  who  had  no 
official  relations  with  the  church. 

"  Wal,"  said  Deacon  Rawson,  "  the  minister's  sartin 
a  ready  preacher,  an'  he  keeps  a-hold  o'  the  congerga- 
tion  pooty  wal,  so  fer  ;  but  haow  long  he  k'n  go  on 
'thaout  some  new  idees,  thet's  what  I  don't  see.  A 
mill  don't  grind  out  flaour  onless  ther's  grain  fallin' 
inter  the  hopper." 

"  He  hain't  never  preached  any  doctrine,"  said  Dea- 
con Dodge. 

"  He  hain't  raoused  th'  impenitunt,"  said  Deacon 
Holyoke. 

*' An'  haow  could  he  .? "  asked  Deacon  Rawson  ;  "it's 
all  one  thing  over  'n  over.  It's  my  'pinion  't  he's  a 
good  man  ez  fer's  he  knows,  —  ez  fer's  he  kin  be.  But 
I'm  afeard  he  hain't  no  depth  tu  him,  an'  no  ra'al  feelin'. 
All  them  fine  words  don't  signify  nothin'  ;  he  k'n  reel 
'em  off  any  time.  Ef  he  was  ra'ally  teched  himself,  he 
might  tech  other  folks.  His  words  don't  come  aout 
f'm  his  h'art,  but  aout  f'm  his  head,  an'  ther'  ain't  no 
grip  to  'em.  He  don't  feel  'em  no  more'n  a  pump 
feels  the  resh  o'  water  in  its  inside." 

"Ain't  ye  a  leetle  hard  on  him.''"  asked  Deacon 
Dodge. 

"  Wal,  p'r'aps  I  be,"  answered  Deacon  Rawson.  "  But 
I  was  a-thinkin'  'baout  a  funeral  wher'  he  wan't  a  mite 
o'  use,  —  wher'  he'd  better  ben  away.  It  was  Levi 
Pomeroy,  y'  know,  who  struck  the  axe  in  his  ankle  ;  an', 
ez  he  was  full-blooded,  the  waound  mortified.  There 
wan't  no  savin'  him  onless  they'd  a-cut  off  his  leg  at 
fust.  'Twas  an  occashun  when  a  ra'al  minister  'd  've 
gin  some  livin  ,  airnest  word  o'  comfort  ter  the  widder, 
an'   some  solumn  warnin'   to  th'   impenitunt,  he  bein' 


TRANSITION  1 85 

took  off  so  suddin.  But  the  minister,  he  jest  went  to 
spinnin'  silk  rib'ns  ;  an'  when  I  looked  at  the  widdcr  I 
c'd  see  she  was  jest  sick  an'  tired  o'  his  flaowcry  stuff, 
'thaout  a  mite  o'  ra'al  feelin'  in  it,  an'  her  pore  h'art 
achin  'so, — jest  a-thustin'  a«n'  hungerin'  fer  di\ine 
comfort." 

*'  Wal,  naow  yeou  speak  on't,"  said  Deacon  Holyoke, 
*'  I  felt  much  abaout  so  tu  the  fun'ral  o'  young  Thomp- 
son. 'Twas  a  bright,  pooty  boy,  ye  know, — his  flesh 
an'  bones  mangled  at  the  saw-mill,  an'  he  fetched  home 
dead  to  his  mother,  an'  she  a-shriekin'  so's  ter  be 
heered  a  mile.  Wal,  naow,  arter  sech  a  shock  ez  thet, 
what  comfort  was't  tu  his  mother  at  the  fun'ral  ter  hear 
them  strings  o'  words  thet  don't  mean  nothin'  }  He 
might  've  improved  the  solumn  occashun  for  her  good  ; 
an'  he  might  've  showed  he'd  a  man's  heart  inside  of 
him.  Any  man  thet  knows  what  a  mother  feels  thet's 
lost  her  boy  in  thet  orful  way,  ef  he  trusts  to  na- 
ter,  he'll  say  sunthin'  'live  an'  tender  an'  comfortin'. 
Seemed  's  ef  I  couldn't  set  still  while  he  was  sayin' 
them  smooth  thinp;^." 

''  We  ain't  gom'  ter  hev  another  man  soon  ag'in  like 
him  that's  left  us,"  said  Deacon  Rawson.  ''Talk  abaout 
feelin'  !  When  Jic  went  tu  a  fun'ral  he  was  a  trew 
comfort  tu  the  'flicted  ;  an'  he  was  a  terrer  tu  evil- 
dewers  tu." 

"No;  we  didn't  know  when  we  was  wal  off,"  said 
Deacon  Dodge.      ''We  hed  orter  kep'  him." 

"Wal,"  said  Deacon  Rawson,  "I  s'pose  I've  said  tu 
much.  I  talk  tu  veou  'cause  we've  an  int'rest  in  the 
church  too-ether.  Them  that  was  the  means  o'  i;"ittin' 
this  minister  here  '11  naterally  stan'  by  him.  It's  aour 
dewtv  to  wait,  an'  in  dew  time  the  Lord  '11  show  us  his 
will.'' 


1 86  QUAE  BIN 

The  county  newspaper,  a  few  days  later,  had  a  report 
of  a  "  powerful  sermon  "  delivered  by  the  minister  of 
Ouabbin  at  the  county  town,  where  he  had  appeared  by 
an  exchange  of  pulpits.  After  the  preliminary,  the 
report  was  in  these  terms  :  — 

"It  is  seldom  that  the  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  has  received  a  nobler 
or  more  brilliant  illustration  than  in  the  discourse  on  last  Sabbath  morn- 
ing at  the  East  Church.     l"he  Rev.  Mr. ,  of  Quabbin,  preached  to  a 

crowded  and  delighted  audience  from  the  text,  'Let  your  light  so  shine,' 
etc.  After  touching  lightly  upon  the  various  points  of  Christian  duty, 
the  orator  (for  so  we  must  call  him),  arrayed  the  vast  fields  of  enterprise 
upon  which  the  church  is  now  engaged,  and  pictured  the  triumphs  that 
are  to  follow  when  the  kingdoms  of  this  world  are  l^ecome  the  kingdoms 
of  our  Lord;  when  the  valiant  missionaries  of  the  cross  shall  have 
stormed  the  strongholds  of  the  false  prophet  and  of  Paganism  ;  when  the 
islands  of  the  sea  will  be  wakened  on  Sabbath  mornings  by  church  bells, 
ar.d  the  cannibals  cease  their  shocking  banquets  of  human  flesh;  when 
wars  shall  cease,  and  men  shall  beat  their  swords  into  ploughshares,  and 
their  spears  into  pruning-hooks ;  and  all  men  shall  be  united  in  the  love 
of  God  and  of  each  other.  'Then,' asked  he  with  a  significant  emphasis, 
'do  you  think  it  will  be  time  for  the  faithful  servants  of  God  to  fold  their 
hands  and  enjov  their  well-earned  repose  1  No;  they  will  be  looking  for 
new  worlds  to  conquer.  They  will  even  try  to  build  a  railroad  to  the 
fixed  stars,  so  as  to  carry  to  the  uttermost  bounds  of  creation  the  news 
of  the  unsearchable  riches  of  Christ  Jesus  our  Lord.' 

"  We  do  not  pretend  to  quote  this  magnificent  outburst  verbatim  ;  but 
the  impression  was  so  strong  that  some  of  the  sentences  are  a  part  of 
memory  henceforth  and  forever.  The  high  note  struck  by  the  reverend 
gentleman  at  the  end  of  the  first  clause  of  the  last  sentence  was  abso- 
lutelv  thrilling.  The  people  of  Qualjbin  are  to  be  congratulated  in  having 
set  over  them  as  mimster  a  man  of  such  extraordinary  and  irresistible 
eloquence." 


HOW   THE    TWIG    WAS  BENT  1 8/ 


CHAPTER    XX 

HOW    THE    TWIG    WAS    BENT 

The  Puritans  laid  down  rules  of  conduct  for  an 
ideal  society  of  believers.  Such  a  society  as  they  con- 
ceived of  could  not  have  held  together  for  many  gener- 
ations, for  some  of  their  precepts  and  customs  were 
contrary  to  the  primal  and  ineradicable  instincts  of 
human  nature.  In  practice,  as  has  been  intimated, 
they  placed  work  at  the  head  of  the  Christian  virtues. 
There  was  some  reason  for  this;  and,  with  occasional 
rest  and  amusements,  the  condition  of  dailv  labor  would 
not  have  been  intolerable.  But  they  imagined  play  to 
be  foolish,  if  not  sinful,  and  the  longing  for  recrea- 
tion on  the  part  of  children  to  be  one  of  the  symptoms 
of  that  total  depravity  which  infected  every  son  and 
daughter  of  Adam.  This,  in  their  opinion,  was  part 
of  the  ''foolishness"  which  was  "bound  up  in  the 
heart  of  a  child,"  and  which  only  "  the  rod  of  correc- 
tion "  could  drive  away.  The  model  boy  was  he  who 
toiled  from  Monday  morning  to  Saturday  night,  and 
asked  for  no  diversion.  In  many  families  this  strict- 
ness was  not  observed  ;  a  good  many  boys  had  reason- 
able liberty,  and  were  proficient  in  sports  and  games, 
including  ball-playing,  swimming,  and  skating  ;  but 
very  few  were  allowed  to  grow  up  in   idleness. 

As    the    housewife    had   cnouiih   to  do  indoors,    and 


1 88  QUABBIX 

the  husband  followed  his  regular  work,  the  odd  jobs, 
called  ''chores,"  fell  to  the  lot  of  the  boys.  These 
were  the  care  of  poultry,  horses,  oxen,  cows,  sheep,  or 
pigs,  weeding  the  garden,  cutting  and  carrying  in  fire- 
wood, doing  errands  at  the  store,  shovelling  paths  in 
the  snow,  and  numberless  other  things.  On  farms 
where  animals  were  numerous,  there  were  usually 
hired  men  to  attend  to  the  barns,  but  there  were, 
nevertheless,  always  tasks  for  the  boys. 

The  ultra-pious,  who  went  about  sighing,  and  ex- 
claiming, ''This  is  a  dying  world!"  insisted  upon  chil- 
dren's renunciation  of  toys  and  games,  and  strove  to 
plant  in  their  minds  the  sad  resolution  and  endeavor 
which  had  guided  their  own  lives.  It  was  not  an  inten- 
tional unkindness,  but  rather  an  attempt  to  override  or 
ignore  the  conditions  and  needs  of  immaturity.  One 
would  think  they  would  have  been  instructed  by  the 
antics  of  colts  and  calves,  and  by  the  frolics  of  puppies 
and  kittens  ;  but  the  analogy  did  not  appear  to  strike 
them,  and  they  believed  they  were  acting  "  in  the  light 
of  eternity"  by  bringing  up  serious  little  old  men. 

It  is  obviously  a  lasting  wrong  to  a  boy's  physical 
and  moral  nature  to  deny  him  a  fair  share  in  the  amuse- 
ments suited  to  his  age.  Two-thirds  and  more  of  the 
children  in  Ouabbin  had  a  reasonable  time  for  play; 
but  for  the  remnant  the  world  was  melancholy  enough. 
Look  at  the  life  of  a  boy  during  week-days  under  such 
repression.  We  have  already  seen  how  his  Sundavs 
were  spent.  His  week-days  were  scarcely  less  monoto- 
nous. While  some  of  his  school-fellows  were  at  play, 
the  "  good  boy  "  was  at  work  in  the  garden  or  wood- 
yard,  or  was  driving  the  cow  to  pasture  ;  and  when  his 
chores  were  done,   he  was   told   he  might  read.     And 


HO  IV    THE    TWIG    WAS  BENT  1 89 

such  books!  He  never  played  marbles,  as  that  was  a 
gambling  game.  He  never  had  a  manageable  kite, 
because  a  good  string  cost  money,  and  that  was  waste- 
ful. He  had  a  sled,  because  that  could  be  made  use- 
ful in  bringing  flour  and  provisions  ;  but  he  was  not 
allowed  skates,  and  so  missed  the  exhilaration  of  glid- 
ing over  the  ice  with  the  joyous  crowds  that  frequented 
the  ponds.  From  an  unwise  caution,  he  was  not  per- 
mitted to  learn  to  swim.  On  some  rare  occasions  he 
found  time  to  take  a  part  in  round  ball  or  four-old-cat ; 
but,  owing  to  want  of  practice,  he  muffed  the  balls  as  a 
catcher,  and  missed  them  as  a  batter.  In  fact,  he  never 
learned  any  game  well  enough  to  play  it  tolerably  ;  for 
he  was  expected  to  make  a  sober  and  godly  use  of  his 
time,  and  was  counselled  to  live  every  day  as  he  would 
if  he  knew  that  his  next  waking  were  to  be  in  the 
eternal  world.  He  had  a  little  pocket-money,  but  gen- 
erally earned  it  by  the  hardest  penance,  and,  in  place 
of  laying  it  out  for  "  follies,"  he  was  allowed  to  put  it 
in  the  box  at  the  missionary  prayer-meeting.  A  boy 
who  cannot  take  part  in  the  sports  of  his  fellows  is 
cut  off  from  comradeship,  and  the  isolation  produces 
an  estrangement  on  both  sides,  that  ceases  only  with 
life. 

The  men  of  Ouabbin  showed  the  effects  of  uninter- 
mitted  work.  Thev  were  mostly  well-jointed,  strong, 
and  enduring,  but  were  heavy,  awkward,  and  slouching 
in  movement.  They  walked  like  ploughmen,  with  a 
slow  inclination  from  side  to  side.  There  was  no  flexi- 
bility in  the  arms,  no  erectness  in  the  spinal  column,  no 
easy  carriage  of  the  head.  Had  their  work  boon  varied 
with  some  light  and  agreeable  exercise,  —  dancing,  pleas- 
ure excursions,  rowing,  or  the  like,  —  they  might   have 


IQO  QUABBIN 

been  equally  strong,  with  a  great  gain  in  lightness, 
grace,  and  activity. 

In  earlier  days  the  sinners  had  the  advantage  of  the 
saints  in  athletics,  owing  in  a  great  measure  to  dan- 
cing, which  is  a  wonderful  lubricator  of  the  joints,  and 
the  parent  of  graceful  movement.  When  the  sinners 
mostly  came  under  the  sway  of  the  church,  and  dances 
and  romping  games  fell  into  disuse,  then  the  lumber- 
ing motion  became  universal ;  humility  and  reverence 
bowed  the  head  and  shoulders,  and  the  feet  and  legs 
drawled  like  the  speech.  The  want  of  liveliness  and 
of  inspiriting  exercise  was  painfully  characteristic  of 
Quabbin.  A  walk  that  extended  beyond  the  limits  of 
the  village  was  unusual.  To  go  three  miles  people  felt 
obliged  to  get  a  horse  from  the  livery  stable.  If  a  man 
walked  five  miles  he  was  thought  eccentric  and  preten- 
tious. Whereas,  if  men,  women,  and  children  in  such 
a  village  had  been  compelled  to  walk  from  three  to  five 
miles  a  day  in  all  weathers,  it  would  have  set  heads 
upright,  given  spring  and  elasticity  to  joints,  made 
biliousness  disappear,  and  brightened  theology. 

Strictly  religious  people  forbade  their  children  to 
strike  a  blow,  whether  in  retaliation  or  defence.  This 
was  the  severest  trial  ;  but  boys  were  assured  of  two 
things,  namely,  that,  if  they  were  punished  at  school, 
another  punishment  would  follow  at  home,  and  that 
they  would  be  birched  if  they  fought  with  other  boys, 
even  in  self-defence.  Now,  boys  have  always  fought, 
and  always  will  ;  and  a  ''  good  boy  "  who  was  forbidden 
to  "  hit  back  "  was  always  the  first  one  to  be  pounced 
upon,  and  so  became  the  butt  of  small  scoffers,  and  the 
victim  of  all  the  malice  and  mischief  not  otherwise 
employed.     However  non-resistance  may  have  worked 


HOW   THE    TWIG    WAS  BE  XT  1 91 

''down  in  Judee,"  it  is  scarcely  practicable  among  the 
Anglo-Saxons  of  to-day. 

The  Puritan  enjoined  upon  his  children  the  duty  of 
being  kindly  affectioned  and  helpful.  "  If  any  man 
ask  thee  to  go  a  mile,  go  with  him  twain."  A  boy  so 
brought  up  was  liable  to  frequent  imposition.  One  of 
them  met  the  minister  (Number  III.)  one  day,  and 
observed  from  afar  his  beaming  face.  His  expansive 
joy  was  like  the  oil  that  ran  down  upon  the  beard,  even 
Aaron's  beard,  and  touched  the  hem  of  his  garment. 
The  boy  was  overwhelmed  as  by  an  angelic  vision. 
*'  Sonny,"  said  the  minister,  in  his  mellifluous  tone,  "  I 
want  to  send  word  over  to  Brother  Colman  about  ex- 
changing with  me  next  Lord's  Day,  and  am  afraid  a 
letter  by  mail  mayn't  reach  him  in  season.  Now,  I  have 
a  nice,  gentle  saddle-horse  ;  and  do?it  you  want  to  ride 
over  and  take  a  letter  to  him  .''  That's  a  good  boy  ! 
It  will  be  a  pleasant  trip  for  you,  and,  in  a  way,  you 
will  be  doing  the  Master's  work." 

Permission  was  got  from  his  parents,  —  who  could 
say  "no  "  to  the  minister.'*  —  and  for  five  miles  out  and 
five  miles  back  the  boy  was  jounced  and  pounded  on  a 
hard-trotting  beast,  to  oblige  a  smooth-tongued  diplo- 
matist, who  had  ample  means  and  leisure  to  attend  to 
his  own  affairs.  The  boy  had  already  all  he  could  do 
from  week's  end  to  week's  end,  and  seldom  an  hour 
for  play.  And  what  did  he  gain  by  the  ride  that  made 
all  his  bones  ache.'*  The  reward  of  an  "  approving  con- 
science," and  a  reputation  for  good  nature  that  would 
invite  further  asriiression. 

o  o 

To  turn  the  other  cheek  to  the  smiter,  to  be  gener- 
ous and  heli)ful  to  the  point  of  self-denial,  to  regard 
work  as  a  duty  and  blessing,  to  the  exclusion  of  amuse- 


192  QUABBIN 

ments, — these  are  all  doctrines  of  the  gospel.  But, 
according  to  the  same  authority,  all  the  lands  of  a  town 
should  be  held  in  common,  and  all  the  hoards  of  money 
and  goods  should  be  divided  ;  there  should  be  no  rich 
and  no  poor ;  all  labor  should  be  equalized,  and  all 
dignities  abolished  ;  the  lawyer  must  not  be  called 
"  Esquire,"  nor  the  minister  "  Reverend."  Why  were 
the  boys  given  the  ''hard  lines,"  when  adults  disre- 
garded the  fundamental  condition  of  primitive  Chris- 
tianity .''  ,  . 

The  people  in  ancient  times  were  said  to  have  been 
divided  into  beasts  of  burden  and  beasts  of  prey  ;  and 
the  classification  is  not  wholly  obsolete.  There  are 
plenty  of  burdens  ready  for  patient  shoulders,  and 
there  will  never  be  any  rest  for  the  good  natured. 
Without  some  firmness,  and  a  little  pugnacity  in  re- 
serve, and  without  a  reasonable  core  of  selfishness,  a 
man  will  play  a  poor  part  in  the  w^orld  as  it  is.  The 
domineering  and  predatory,  and  the  crafty  and  plausi- 
ble, are  always  seeking  for  victims  among  the  amiable 
and  self-forgetting.  It  seems  altogether  ludicrous  or 
absurd  to  think  of  preaching  the  need  of  combative- 
ness  and  self-protection  in  times  like  ours;  and  probably 
there  are  few  places  in  the  world  now-a-days  where 
such  preaching  would  not  be  out  of  place.  But  among 
primitive  Christians  in  Quabbin,  long  ago,  and  doubt- 
less in*  other  small  rural  communities,  there  were 
youths  who  were  brought  up  to  be  willing  pack-horses, 
and  men  who  were  so  obliging  that  they  lived  and  died 
poor.  The  majority  of  the  people  there,  as  elsewhere, 
needed  no  counsel  as  to  their  own  interests  ;  but  the 
gentle-natured  who  went  forth  to  seek  tlieir  fortunes 
learned  to  stiffen  their  own  fibre,  and  take  juster  views 
of  the  character  of  the  men  thev  met  in  the  world. 


HOir   THE    TWIG    WAS  BE  XT  1 93 

With  all  the  care  that  was  taken  to  strengthen,  chil- 
dren by  holy  precepts,  and  to  surround  them  with  good 
examples,  it  is  strange  that,  in  so  many  instances,  they 
were  allowed  to  com'e  within  reach  of  the  baser  sort  of 
hired  men.  This  was  sometimes  an  influence  for  evil, 
both  deadly  and  contagious.  In  an  hour  or  in  a  mo- 
ment an  impression  or  suggestion  might  be  made  that 
would  poison  a  whole  life.  Errors  of  opinion  can  be 
combated,  and  many  sins  can  be  atoned  for  and  for- 
saken, but  the  soil  of  immodesty, — what  shall  wash  it 
away  "i  Can  a  cheek  once  kissed  be  ^///-kissed }  or 
snow  once  sullied  become  like  ermine  again }  The 
youth  who  has  received  the  hint  of  sensuality  will 
never  again  be  the  pure-hearted  youth  he  was.  Those 
coarse  and  vicious  farm-hands,  and  strolling  journeymen 
mechanics,  were  the  curse  of  some  families  in  Quabbin, 
and  the  elders  seem  not  to  have  suspected  it.  A  father 
should  take  heed  wdiat  sort  of  a  man  he  admits,  even 
for  a  day,  under  his  roof. 

Few  young  people  know  under  what  severe  discipline 
their  fathers  were  brought  up ;  and  to  many  this 
account  of  the  trials  of  youth  in  Quabbin  long  ago  \vill 
appear  exaggerated  and  bitter.  But,  in  fact,  it  is 
wholly  within  the  limits  of  truth.  While  the  recollec- 
tions of  bovhood  in  the  old  time  include  much  that  is 
bright  and  beautiful,  there  are  also  impressions  of  an 
unreasonable  austerity,  which  are  as  painful  as  old 
wounds.  When  such  impressions  are  recalled,  it  is  not 
at  the  dictate  of  resentnient,  but  with  a  view  of  con- 
tributing to  the  stock  of  human  experience  something 
that  may  be  of  service  in  the  education  of  to-day . 


194  QUAE  BIN 


CHAPTER   XXI 

QUABBIN    LOSES    AND    GAINS 

In  the  part  of  the  village  near  the  dam  there  were 
formerly  mills  and  shops  that  have  mostly  disappeared, 
though  some  dozed  into  forgetfulness  and  became  store- 
houses for  rubbish.  Few  of  the  present  inhabitants 
remember  that  there  was  once  a  saw-mill  near  the 
bridge,  and  opposite  to  it  a  tall  cotton-factory  whose 
booming  "picker"  strove  all  day  to  drown  the  noise  of 
its  neighbor,  the  strident  saw  ;  or  that  there  was  a  pros- 
perous (and  odorous)  tanyard  on  the  river-bank;  or  that 
across  the  bridge  there  was  a  linseed-oil  mill,  whose 
high  stone  wheels  turned  gayly  round  each  other,  like  a 
pair  of  stout  and  tireless  waltzers.  All  these  disap- 
peared long  ago,  and  left  no  trace.  In  a  dull  yellow 
building  there  were,  sixty  years  ago,  dozens  of  bright, 
clicking  machines,  complex  as  watches,  which  set  wire 
teeth  in  leather  for  carding,  and  acted  as  if  with  human 
intelligence.  The  card-factory  was  the  foundation  of 
two  fortunes  ;  but  the  business  at  last  went  elsewhere, 
and  the  building  became  as  melancholy  as  the  town's 
poor-house. 

In  the  North  Village  also,  various  small  industries 
were  in  progress.  There  was  a  little  shop  where  pearl 
buttons  were  made  from  oyster  shells  ;  one  in  wliich 
shoe-pegs    were    cut    by    ingenious    machinery    from 


QUAE  BIX  LOSES  AND   GAINS  1 95 

fragrant  birch-wood,  most  odorous  of  native  woods  ; 
also  a  saw-mill,  a  machine-shop,  and  a  trip-hammer 
forge  for  making  hoes.  None  of  these  now  exist.  The 
rights  of  the  water-power  were  absorbed  by  the  cotton- 
factory  ;  while  in  the  lower  village  they  were  divided 
between  the  factory  and  the  grist-mill. 

While  all  these  mills  and  shops  were  flourishing,  the 
stores  were  prosperous,  new  dwellings  were  built,  and 
new  faces  appeared  on  Sunday  in  the  meeting-house. 
Quabbin  appeared  to  have  what  in  modern  times  is 
called  a  "boom  ;"  but  it  was  not  to  endure. 

The  town  reached  its  maximum  of  population, 
and  the  height  of  its  prosperity  in-  business,  about 
the  beginning  of  the  third  minister's  term  ;  but 
with  its  prosperity  or  decline  neither  he  nor  his 
predecessor  had  anything  to  do  ;  the  business  and 
population  were  affected  by  circumstances  unfore- 
seen and  inevitable.  The  deterioration  began  when 
the  State's  trunk  line  of  railroad  passed  a  dozen  miles 
on  one  side.  A  great  many  years  later  a  railroad 
was  built  through  Quabbin,  but  it  was  too  late ;  its 
business  had  been  tapped  and  drawn  off,  never  to  flow 
back.  Railroads  are  sometimes  feeders  and  sometimes 
drains.  Other  things  were  co-operating  in  the  decline, 
and  no  shrewdness  or  activity  availed.  When  flax- 
growing  ceased,  the  pair  of  great  mill-stones  had  no 
more  seed  to  waltz  over.  When  the  hills  had  been 
stripped  of  the  trees  of  large  girth,  the  saw-mills  were 
no  longer  profitable.  Against  the  enormous  competi- 
tion of  Lowell,  Lawrence,  and  Manchester,  a  small  cot- 
ton-factory in  Quabbin  had  not  the  least  chance.  The 
making  of  card-clothing,  which  had  been  sucli  a  source 
of  wealth,  could  be  better  managed  njar  the  machinery 


196  QUABBIN 

for  which  it  was  desisrned.     When  '^ satinets"  sfot  out 

o  o 

of  favor,  cotton  warps  were  no  longer  wanted.  One 
thing  fell  after  another.  For  a  long  time  the  factories 
were  idle ;  and  it  appeared  that  Ouabbin,  possiblv, 
might  some  day  end  where  it  began,  with  a  grist-mill. 
But  latterly  shoddy  is  made  there  by  Canadian  French 
workmen  ;  and  the  Gallic  invasion  naturally  awakens 
some  apprehension  among  the  natives.  Shoddy  ! 
Absit  omen. 

Perhaps  something  worth  while  might  have  been 
done  with  the  wasting  water-power  ;  but  with  un- 
stable tariffs,  just  as  fatal  when  too  high  as  too  low, 
and  with  alien  workers, —  for  Yankees  work  no  more 
in  mills,  excepting  "opinion  mills," — the  prospect 
of  manufacturing  in  such  a  remote  place  was  not 
alluring. 

Let  us  go  back  for  a  moment  to  the  old  time.  Peo- 
ple never  knew  how  it  came  about  that  the  three  courtly 
and  popular  mill-owners,  before  mentioned,  gradually 
lost  their  hold  upon  the  property,  and  began  to  decline 
in  wealth  and  influence. 

A  couple  of  young,  active,  and  pushing  men  succeeded 
the  three  elderly,  easy-going,  kindly  gentlemen  by  dint 
of  superior  business  qualities.  There  was  a  slow  rise 
of  one  side,  corresponding  wnth  the  slow  decline  of  the 
other.  The  older  party  had  tlic  w^liole  boundless  (and 
useless)  sympathy  of  the  town's-people,  who  looked  on 
at  the  inch-b\'-inch  process,  and  anticipated  the  end  of 
the  drama  long  before  the  curtain  fell. 

After  the  death  of  the  venerable  mother,  the  son  who 
had  cared  for  her  went  away  to  another  State.  Another, 
he  who  lived  upon  the  knoll,  went  elsewhere  to  begin 
the  world  anew.     The  elder  and  most  distinguished,  he 


QUAE  BIN  LOSES  AND   GAINS  1 9/ 

of  the  orange  complexion,  whose  showy  house  and  Ori- 
ental treasures  were  the  wonder  of  the  village,  with- 
drew from  active  business,  retaining  but  a  small  share 
in  the  water-power,  and  lived  upon  the  lessening  rem- 
nant of  his  fortune.  His  death  was  the  mellow  sunset 
of  an  autumn  day. 

A  circle  of  brilliant  associations  ended  for  Quabbin 
when  the  places  of  the  three  brothers  knew  them  no 
more.  Relatives  from  the  county  town,  and  from 
Boston,  used  to  enliven  the  village  and  the  country 
roads  in  summer, — charming  and  cultivated  ladies, 
budding  clergymen  and  lawyers,  the  usual  gathering 
of  people  of  leisure  at  hospitable  country  houses. 
After  the  end  of  the  old  ree'inie  thev  came  no  more. 
Neither  the  balustraded  villa  near  the  meeting-house, 
nor  the  ancient,  sombre,  elm-shaded  mansion,  ever  knew 
again  the  gayety  of  former  days. 

About  the  same  time  a  number  of  prominent  fami- 
lies in  the  village  were  broken  up  by  removal  or  death, 
and  the  village  began  to  lose  ground  in  social  qualities. 
Among  the  grown-up  population  there  was  almost  a 
dead,  level  of  dulness  ;  for  the  leading  men,  though 
intelligent,  were  not  highly  cultivated  :  they  were 
good  citizens,  public-spirited,  and  often  benevolent, 
but  their  strens-th  was  in  making:  moncv.  It  came 
about,  however,  that  some  of  the  rich  men  conferred, 
indirectly,  a  great  boon  upon  the  community  bv  hav- 
ing their  daughters  taught  in  distant  boarding-schools. 
There  were  places  in  Massachusetts  which  had  largely 
the  start  of  Quabbin  in  enlightenment,  and  it  was  a 
great  matter  that  this  small  town  received  a  share  by 
reflection.  When  the  half-dozen  daughters  came  back 
with  some  knowledge  of  books,  and  of  music,  with  the 


iqS  quabbin 

speech 'of  the  educated  world,  and  with  notions  of 
refinement  in  manners  and  dress,  the  usual  conse- 
quences followed.  That  is  to  say,  every  home-keeping 
damsel  declared  the  talk,  the  dress  and  ways  of  the 
boarding-school  graduates  to  be  ''stuck-up"  and  ridicu- 
lous, and  then  proceeded  to  copy  them  to  the  best  of 
her  ability.  Some  of  these  educated  young  ladies 
were  possessed  of  more  than  ordinary  talents,  and 
were  proficient  in  many  studies,  including  modern  lan- 
guages ;  but,  for  well-known  reasons,  an  acquaintance 
with  English  literature  was  not  possible  at  that  time. 
Unhappily  they  did  not  appear  to  concern  themselves 
with  the  improvement  of  society  in  the  village  ;  they 
had  outgrown  it.  In  the  course  of  time  they  married, 
one  after  the  other,  and  went  away  ;  but  while  they 
remained  they  appeared  conspicuous,  and  were  thought 
to  be  indifferent  to  public  opinion.  Their  hats,  rib- 
bons, laces,  and  gloves,  and  the  fit  of  their  robes,  the 
dressing  of  their  hair,  and  even  their  folding  of  a  shawl, 
were  marked  by  an  inimitable  elegance.  Reserved  in 
their  intercourse  as  they  were,  their  silent  example 
was  eloquent.  Their  rustic  neighbors  felt  convicted  of 
a  whole  catalogue  of  social  misdemeanors  when  they 
learned  the  necessity  of  the  exclusive  use  of  the  fork 
at  table,  and  of  certain  proprieties  and  interdictions 
in  reo-ard  to  dress  and  toilet.  The  school-mistresses 
were  piqued  to  discover,  as  they  all  did  in  time,  that  in 
practice  their  grammar  was  habitually  shaky,  and  their 
pronunciation  hopelessly  vulgar  ;  and  forthwith  they 
be<ian  to  exterminate  Yankeeisms  like  ill  weeds,  and  to 
strive  after  pure  English. 

Meanwhile,  the  young  ladies  whose  return  had  made 
such  a  stir  v/alkcd  through  the  village,  and  drove  about 


QUABBIN  LOSES  AND   GAINS  I99 

the  neighborhood,  apparently  unconscious  of  the  exist- 
ence of  the  people  they  had  known  all  their  lives. 
The  only  place  of  contact  was  the  Sunday-school,  in 
which,  upon  the  earnest  entreaty  of  their  parents,  they 
became  teachers.  The  religious  instruction  they  gave, 
however,  was  somewhat  neutralized  by  what  their  pupils 
thought  to  be  airs  of  superiority  ;  for  divine  grace  does 
not  mix  well  with  snubbing  or  ignoring  one's  neighbor ; 
but  it  was  a  lesson  of  value  to  hear  passages  of  Scrip- 
ture read  with  pure  tone  and  correct  accent,  and  to 
observe  how  EuGrlish  mav  be  free  and  idiomatic,  with- 
out  ever  becoming  ungrammatical.  It  will  be  inferred 
that  these  young,  women  were  cordially  hated,  or  at 
least  regarded  with  that  mixture  of  awe,  envy,  and 
creeping  aversion,  which  is  more  uncomfortable  than 
downright  enmity.  But  there  they  were,  partly  the 
admiration,  partly  the  reproachful  example,  of  their 
less-favored  town's-folk,  vvdio,  if  they  had  read  Virgil, 
might  have  justified  their  position  in  learning  all  they 
could  from  '*  the  enemy." 

The  new  influence  came  too  late  to  benefit  mature 
men  and  women,  but  it  affected,  however  remotely, 
every  boy  and  girl  in  the  Sunday-school.  It  roused  a 
passionate  longing  in  some  youths  who  had  been  dream- 
ing of  a  better  training  than  the  schools  of  Ouabbin 
afforded.  It  was  an  element  in  the  general  elevation 
of  the  community,  which  became  evident  in  the  next 
minister's  reign. 

One  of  these  young  ladies  had  a  pianoforte,  the  first 
that  was  possessed  in  Ouabbin.  It  is  impossible  to 
exaggerate  the  sensation  that  was  produced  in  the  vil- 
lage wlu-n  that  instrument  was  first  heard.  It  was  a 
clear,    moonlit   evening   in   summer,    and    the    windows 


200  QUAE  BIN 

were  open.  Passers-by  lingered  in  the  street,  and  an 
admiring  row  of  boys  appeared  to  be  impaling  them- 
selves on  the  fence  pickets  under  the  poplars,  as  they 
leaned  forward  to  listen.  With  every  group  of  arpeg- 
gios, and  of  florid  roulades,  it  seemed  to  them  that 
diamonds  and  pearls  were  flung  into  the  air,  or  that 
catharine-wheels  were  shooting  fiery  little  stars,  or  that 
a  thousand  bobolinks  had  been  let  loose,  all  singing  at 
once  ;  and  that  fitful  winds  came  in  deep  gusts  to  fur- 
nish the  harmonies.  All  comparisons,  however,  are 
poor  and  inapt  to  express  the  effects  of  music,  and 
especially  of  brilliant  music  with  full  chords,  zvhcn 
heard  for  tJie  first  time.  Explain  to  a  man  born  blind 
the  glories  of  a  rainbow,  and  then  you  may  give  words 
to  the  sensations  of  those  boys  as  they  listened  to  the 
pianoforte.  Many  of  them  in  after  years  were  to  hear 
that  ill-used  instrument  drummed  by  school-girls  until 
they  were  ready  to  execrate  the  inventor ;  but  hardly 
would  they  forget  that  beautiful  night  in  Ouabbin, 
when  the  tones  seemed  to  have  come  from  angelic 
harps,  while  the  trembling  leaves  of  the  poplars  in  a 
soft  snsurrns  told  of  the  delight  that  spread  through 
the  air. 

The  society  of  Ouabbin  was  at,  times  enlivened  by 
some  bright  young  schoolmaster,  who  was  working  his 
way  through  college.  The  village  matrons  made  much 
of  these  ambitious  youths,  for  there  were  often  appeal- 
ing possibilities  in  their  eager  faces  ;  but  the  accom- 
plished young  ladies  hesitated  about  wasting  time  upon 
young  fellows  for  whom  they  would  have  to  wait  half 
a  dozen  years,  and,  meanwhile,  be  obliged  to  forego 
flirting,  and  renounce  intervening  chances.  And  if 
one  thinks  upon   it,  it  was   not   equitable  ;  tJiey  were  at 


QUABBiy  LOSES  AND   GAINS  201 

their  best, — full-blossomed,  diplomaed,  ticketed,  and 
ready  for  the  principal  event  of  life,  while  the  student 
had  his  course  to  finish,  and  then  his  position  to  win. 

Then  there  came  occasionally  some  young  doctor 
who  fancied  Ouabbin  a  good  place  wherein  to  flesh  his 
maiden  lancet,  and  gain  medical  experience  ?';/  corpoi'i- 
biis  vilis  ;  and  who  departed  as  soon  as  possible,  to  use 
his  skill  upon  richer  patients. 

One  of  these  might  be  dainty  and  dandified,  and,  as 
such,  w^ould  be  useful  to  young  men,  by  exhibiting  late 
models  of  tailoring  and  of  neckwear.  One  might  be 
keen,  rough,  and  amusing,  with  a  turn  for  local  poli- 
tics. Another  might  reconnoitre  the  ground  to  see  if 
a  fortune  might  be  got  w'ith  a  rich  man's  daughter  — 
not  too  plain  or  dowdy.  But  none  of  the  young  doc- 
tors remained  long  ;  Ouabbin  was  too  small  and  too 
conservative.  The  people  did  not  take  to  a  doctor 
until,  as  they  said,  they  had  "  summered  and  wintered" 
him,  —  wd"iich  also  might  include  starving  him. 

With  a  diminishing  population,  and  with  no  leaders 
of  mark,  the  town  would  have  been  insufferably  dull  if 
it  had  not  been  for  the  ''pert  minxes  "  who  tried  the 
patience  of  the  old,  and  who  were  the  envy  and  the 
despair  of  those  of  their  owai  age.  Every  fine  day 
there  w^as  something  new  in  their  proceedings.  They 
made  parties  to  climb  the  hills,  or  to  row  on  the  river, 
and  always  came  back  with  handfuls  of  water-lilies  or 
wild-flowers,  besides  those  they  stuck  in  their  dashing 
Vandyke  hats.  They  galloped  along  the  country  roads, 
with  trailing  skirts  and  flying  veils;  and  their  cheery 
laughter  sounded  strangely  to  tlie  sober  Puritan  folk. 
At  meeting  they  joined  in  all  the  familiar  hymns,  but 
sat  in  their  pews  :  they  would  not  go  into  the  singers* 


202  QUABB/y 

seats;  and  yet  their  voices  had  such  vigor  and  carr3'ing 
quality  that  the  sopranos  in  the  gallery  were  sometimes 
quite  overborne. 

Deacon  Rawson's  mind  was  becoming  painfully  dis- 
turbed. ]\Irs.  Rawson  had  talked  to  him  about  "  them 
gals'  goin's  on,"  and  at  length  he  thought  it  his  Chris- 
tian duty  to  see  Brother  Grant,  the  father  of  two 
daughters  who  were  reputed  to  be  ringleaders,  and 
endeavor  to  have  some  restraint  placed  upon  them. 

When  the  deacon  found  an  opportunity,  it  was  not 
easy  for  him  to  find  phrases.  He  had  fancied  himself 
talking  with  fluency,  like  the  minister;  but  Brother 
Grant  was  a  man  of  cool  self-possession,  and  his  man- 
ner, though  civil,  did  not  invite  intimacy,  still  less 
intrusion  ;  and  the  deacon  toiled  through  his  first  sen- 
tences like  a  horse  in  a  deep  clayey  road.       Said  he,  — 

*'  P'r'aps  it's  comin'  pooty  clos',  tu  talk  tu  a  brother 
'baout  his  own  folks  ;  but  'pears  like  'tis  a  dewty  —  when 
I  see  —  the  need  on't.  Some  o'  the  brethren,  an'  more 
speshily  the  sisters,  is  kinder  troubled  by  th'  irreg'lar 
walk  an'  wuldly  conversashin  of"  — 

*' Whose  walk  and  conversation  V  asked  Mr.  Grant 
abruptly. 

"  Oh,  it's  all  in  Christyin  kindness  an'  brotherly 
love,"  said  Deacon  Rawson.      ''Don't  thii^k  I'd"  — 

"  No  need  o'  beatin  the  bush,"  interrupted  Mr. 
Grant.     "  What   is't  you're  drivin'  at  .-^  " 

"We  was  a-hopin',  "  said  Deacon  Rawson,  "thet 
when  yeour  darters  come  back  from  school  they'd  set  a 
good  example  tu  the  ]:)errish.  Ez  they've  hed  more 
'vantagiz,  they'd  orter  let  their  light  shine,  an'  be  help- 
ful to  the  other  young  folks  thet  hezn't  hed  their 
chalmce.      'Stid   of  which,   they   don't   seem   like  wut 


QUABBIX  LOSES  AXD   GALXS  203 

they  was,  nor  wiit  was  'xpccted.  They  don't  mix  ;  an' 
they  don't  see  nobody  when  they  meet  'em.  P'r'aps 
'tain't  surprishi',  sence  they  was  away  tew  or  three 
years,  an'  they  might  a'  forgot." 

"  Wal,  deacon,"  said  Mr.  Grant,  "  is  it  a  matter  of 
discipline  or  reproof  for  vic^  that  my  daughters  don't 
remember  evervbodv  ? " 

"  'Tain't  on'y  thet,"  said  Deacon  Rawson.  "  Folks 
say  they  ain't  settin'  a  good  example  in  godly  speech  an' 
ways,  ner  in  raiment ;  thet  is,  in  furbelows,  ribbons, 
an'  frills." 

"And  have  I  to  look  after  women's  clothes  ?"  asked 
I\Ir.  Grant.  *'  Do  you  look  after  Mis'  Rawson's  .'' 
That's  a  little  too  much." 

**  An'  thet  pyanner.  Brother  Grant,"  continued  Dea- 
con Rawson;  "is  it  right  to  be  a-playin'  dahncin'  toones 
in  this  ere  dyin'  wuld  ?  Would  yeou  be  willin'  to  go 
to  the  jedgment-seat  right  arter  hearin'  thet  clatterin' 
o'  wires,  an  all  thet  whirligig  mewsic  r" 

"  I  don't  know  that  we  can  choose  what  we  would  be 
doin'  when  we're  to  be  called  to  our  last  account,"  re- 
plied Mr.  Grant.  "  I  mightn't  wish  to  go  to  the  bar 
of  God  right  from  a  pig-killin'  ;  but  you  wouldn't  say  I 
should  do  without  pork  and  sahsidge  ?  But,  Deacon 
Rawson,  you  don't  know  about  the  piano.  Suppose 
you  and  Mis'  Rawson  come  over  to-morrow  in  the 
afternoon  .'*  P'r'aps  you'll  find  the  piano's  like  a  good 
many  other  things,  —  good  or  bad,  accordin'  to  how  it's 
used." 

After  some  parley  Deacon  Rawson  said  "he'd  sec  ef 
he  could  git  his  folks  to  'gree  tu  it."  It  was  odd  that 
the  term  "folks"  was  often  used  even  Vv'hcn  the 
speaker  meant  only  his  wife. 


204  QUA  B  BIN 

At  the  time  appointed  Deacon  Rawson  stepped  down 
from  a  solid  •' thorousih-braced  "  wa^on  at  Brother 
Grant's  gate,  and  helped  out  his  portly  spouse.  They 
went  in  solemnly  by  the  front  door,  and  were  received 
with  sim})le  and  charming  cordialitv.  The  daughters 
were  **on  their  good  behavior,"  and  were  tastefully 
dressed,  without  anything  to  offend  censorious  eyes. 
The  guests  presented  a  sufficient  contrast.  The  dea- 
con was  tall  and  gaunt,  with  grizzly  hair,  small  and 
deep-set  eyes,  and  a  long,  straight  nose,  depending 
from  the  slenderest  attachment  at  the  forehead,  and 
broadening  like  a  trumpet.  His  legs  were  thin,  and 
his  shoulders  were  bowed.  He  looked  like  a  narrow- 
minded  bigot,  but  much  of  his  expression  came  from 
his  training  and  experience.  When  Mrs.  Rawson  took 
off  her  "  calash,"  of  green  silk  arched  with  rattan  ribs, 
which  looked  like  an  inharmonious  elliptical  halo,  there 
was  displayed  a  tufted  turban  of  lemon-colored  batiste, 
resting  upon  folds  of  plain  black  hair  streaked  with 
gray.  This  was  an  ornament  so  imposing  as  to  sug- 
gest the  head-gear  of  an  Oriental  prince.  But  when 
she  was  unswathed  from  her  wraps,  the  straight  lines 
and  sombre  color  of  her  robes  repelled  any  association 
with  the  affluence  of  the  East.  She  was  round,  though 
not  fat ;  her  cheeks  were  dusky  red,  and  a  film  of  down 
rested  on  various  ivory-tinted  curves.  The  popular 
judgment  of  her  was  that  she  was  ''good,  but  slow." 
She  had  no  children,  but  looked  motherly  and  kind. 

Mr.  Grant  was  a  bit  of  a  diplomatist,  and  had 
arranged  his  programme  in  advance.  He  went  and 
opened  the  piano,  a  small  "  square,"  with  turned  legs 
of  mahogany,  and  said  to  his  daughters,  "  You  know  I 
have  invited  our  friends,  the  deacon   and  his   wife,  to 


QUABBIN  LOSES  AND   GAINS  205 

hear  some  music.  Suppose  we  begin  with  '  Hamburg.' 
You  have  a  good  voice,  Deacon  Rawson,  and  you  can 
carry  the  bass.  The  girls  will  take  their  two  parts,  and 
I  can  sing  the  tenor  by  tiptoeing  a  little."  With  slow 
and  even  time  that  noble  tune,  based  upon  an  ancient 
choral,  was  fairly  well  sung  :  — 

''Kingdoms  and  thrones  to  God  belong, 
Crown  him,  ye  nations,  in  your  song." 

The  close  and  solemn  harmony  was  well  sustained 
by  the  piano  ;  and  it  was  a  wholly  new  sensation  to  the 
deacon  to  feel  that  solid  support,  while  his  voice  min- 
gled with  the  sweet  tones  of  the  young  ladies.  The 
moisture  in  his  eyes,  and  at  the  tip  of  his  colossal 
nose,  testified  to  the  liveliness  of  his  emotion.  Then 
followed  Pleyel's  hymn  :  — 

"  To  thy  pastures  fair  and  large. 
Heavenly  Shepherd,  lead  thy  charge." 

Then  the  deacon  wanted  *'  Coronation,"  — 

"All  hail  the  power  of  Jesus'  name." 

This  taxed  Mr.  Grant's  "tiptoeing"  tenor,  but  he 
managed  to  get  through  it.  As  usual,  this  was  sung 
with  a  great  surge  of  feeling ;  and  the  deacon's  ugly 
visage  became  almost  beautiful  in  his  ecstasy.  "  Coro- 
nation" once  roused  Yankees  to/religious  enthusiasm, 
as  the  **  Marseillaise  "  raised  Frenchmen  to  patriotic 
frenzy. 

One  of  the  young  ladies  next  played  a  romance  with 
a  prominent  melody,  slow  and  graceful  in  movement. 
Her  tasteful  fingering  seemed  absolutely  miraculous. 
After  that,  one  of  them  sang  an  air  then  in  vogue,  "  Oh, 


206  QUABBIN 

had  I  wings    like   a  dove !  "     There  was  no    resisting 
this  ;  and  the  deacon  was  fairly  carried  off  his  feet. 

Then  the  entertainment  was  continued  with  marches, 
andante  movements,  and  variations  on  familiar  themes. 
Afterward  tea  was  served  ;  and  the  deacon  and  his 
wife  were  profuse  in  thanks  and  compliments. 

*'  Ez  yeou  said,  Brother  Grant,  it's  jest  accordin'  to 
th'  yeuse  thet's  made  on't.  Naow  th'  ol'  colonel  plays 
a  violin  with  the  choir  tu  meetin',  an'  it's  all  right  ; 
but  ef  'twas  off  at  some  tahvern  fer  dahncin',  'twouldn't 
be  a  violin,  but  a  fiddle,  an'  be  all  wrong." 

The  "  pyanner "  had  triumphed,  and  the  Misses 
Grant,  instead  of  being  elated,  were  apparently  softened 
and  calmed  by  the  victory. 

They  inquired  of  Mrs.  Rawson  about  cheese-making, 
and  promised  to  go  out  and  see  the  dairy,  the  calves, 
the  poultry,  and  all  the  delights  of  the  farm. 

On  the  way  home  Mrs.  Rawson  said,  ''Them  mother- 
less gals  !  Folks  calls  them  high-flyers,  an'  praoud  ; 
p'r'aps  they  be,  but  I  don't  wan'  ter  see  better-behavin' 
gals,  nor  modester  dressed  than  they  was  this  arter- 
noon."  If  she  could  have  seen  how  her  vellow  turban 
looked  ! 

The  deacon  was  meditating,  and  made  no  reply.  Mr. 
Grant,  meanwhile,  was  patting  the  heads  of  his  daugh- 
ters, promising  them  each  a  new  gown. 


COLLEGES  AND   MINISTERS  20/ 


CHAPTER    XXII 

COLLEGES    AND    MINISTERS 

OuABBiN  never  sent  many  young  men  to  college, 
probably  less  than  fifteen,  and,  up  to  sixty  years  ago, 
not  more  than  half  a  dozen.  Within  the  ancient  limits 
of  Newbury,  at  the  mouth  of  the  jMerrimac,  there 
were  three  hundred  graduates  of  Harvard  College  be- 
tween 1642  and  1845.  Three  men  every  two  years 
coming  fresh  from  a  seat  of  learning  must  have  brought 
some  quickening  influence  into  the  community.  Even 
if,  for  a  long  time,  the  standard  of  Harvard  College 
was  not  higher  than  that  of  a  modern  grammar  school, 
the  mere  contact  with  learned  men,  and  with  the  air 
of  libraries,  was  inspiring  and  liberalizing.  The  list  of 
those  graduates  in  Coffin's  *'  History  of  Newburv,"  a 
unique  and  valuable  book,  reads  like  a  muster-roll  of 
the  leaders  of  Massachusetts,  instead  of  the  eminent 
men  of  a  town.  No  other  town  of  like  population 
makes  a  better  showing  ;  and  the  result  is  instructive. 
Educated  men  create  public  sentiment,  and,  recipro- 
cally, public  sentiment  increases  the  number  of  edu- 
cated men.  The  full  effects  of  classical  culture  are 
not  developed  at  once,  nor  exhausted  in  the  lifetime 
of  those  who  receive  it.  Thev  ma\'  not  all  become 
authors, — Heaven  forbid!  —  but  their  existence  and 
influence    form   part    of    the    circumstances    in    which 


208  QUABBIN- 

c:eniiis  is  born.  Leaf-mould  fertilizes  flowers.  The 
effect  of  a  succession  of  educated  men  upon  the  general 
intelligence,  and,  after  a  time,  upon  the  literary  atmos- 
phere of  a  town,  is  always  increasing,  and  in  the  course 
of  two  centuries  works  a  transformation. 

Among  the  descendants  of  families  in  Newbury  were 
the  poets  Longfellow,  Lowell,  and  Whittier;  the  Hales, 
authors  and  editors  ;  President  C.  C.  Felton,  William 
Lloyd  Garrison  ;  the  lawyers  Parsons  and  Greenleaf; 
Caleb  Gushing,  diplomatist;  George  Lunt,  poet;  B.  A. 
Gould,  astronomer ;  Judges  Sewall  and  Lowell,  Rev. 
Leonard  Woods,  Rev,  S.  H.  Tyng,  and  many  other 
distinguished  men. 

In  the  course  of  the  rise  of  Newbury,  or  of  what- 
ever town  has  borne  great  sons,  and,  in  a  measure,  in 
poor  and  remote  Ouabbin,  there  has  been  a  gradual 
and  total  change  in  original  ideas  and  tastes,  in  views 
of  life,  nature,  literature,  and  art  ;  but  in  the  larger  and 
wealthier  places,  which  are  naturally  centres  of  thought 
and  opinion,  the  change  was  earlier  and  more  emphatic. 

At  the  beginning,  the  eastern  part  of  the  State  had 
the  pick  of  the  incoming  settlers ;  and  with  that  advan- 
tage, aided  afterward  by  commerce  and  activity  in 
business,  it  easily  kept  the  lead  in  population,  in  poli- 
tics, in  the  movements  of  mind,  and  in  literary  produc- 
tiveness. In  a  handbook  of  literature  published  about 
twenty  years  ago,  there  are  credited  to  Massachusetts 
seventy-five  authors,  of  whom  sixty-four  were  born  or 
resident  in  the  part  of  the  State  east  of  Worcester,  and 
eleven  in  the  western  part.  The  majority  of  these 
seventy-five  authors  wrote  in  the  early  and  middle  part 
of  the  present  century  ;  very  few  in  the  centuries 
preceding.     The  inference  is,  that  the  bulk  of  the  best 


COLLEGES  AND  MINISTERS  209 

literature  of  the  State  has  been  written  in  the  east,  and 
since  1830. 

The  population  of  the  State  in  that  productive  period 
\vas  fairly  homogeneous  ;  and  what  in  common  phrase 
is  called  the  foreign  element  is  scarcely  represented  in 
the  literature.  It  is  admitted  that  the  population  of 
the  eastern  part  is  far  larger,  and  its  superior  wealth 
has  given  leisure  and  means  for  literary  work  ;  but 
after  all  due  allowances,  the  west  is  hopelessly  behind 
in  productiveness.  Genius  may  not  be  subject  to  any 
law  of  averages  ;  and  it  always  appears  unexpectedly, 
without  favoring  causes  that  can  be  estimated.  Why 
Hawthorne  was  born  in  Salem,  Emerson  in  Boston,  or 
Bryant  near  the  Berkshire  Hills,  might  elude  inquiry  ; 
but  most  books,  however  excellent,  are  not  the  work  of 
men  of  genius  ;  and  the  total  production  of  books 
follows  certain  laws  which  can  be  studied. 

No  great  historians,  and  few  great  poets,  have  suc- 
ceeded in  Massachusetts  without  the  aid  of  ample 
fortunes  ;  no  man  who  has  not  inherited  or  acquired 
property  can  spend  ten  or  twenty  years  in  researches, 
as  did  Bancroft,  Prescott,  Motley,  and  Parkman.  Our 
leading  poets,  with  a  single  exception,  were  reared  and 
always  lived  in  comfort.  But  leading  poets  and  histo- 
rians are  few  ;  and  as  for  the  remaining  authors,  who 
miglit  have  arisen  in  any  part  of  the  State,  we  ought  to 
know  why  most  of  them  arose  in  the  east. 

The  answer  is  not  far  to  seek.  It  was  in  the  cities 
and  large  towns  of  the  east  that  the  movement  began 
against  the  sterner  features  of  Puritan  doctrine,  and  it 
was  there  that  the  people  were  soonest  emancipated 
from  the  rigor  of  a  rule  under  which  no  general  litera- 
ture was  possible.     The  casting  off  of  that  yoke  was 


2IC  QUAE  ELY 

followed  immediately  by  a  period  of  illimitable  expan- 
sion, of  eager  study,  of  new  and  joyous  impressions  of 
nature,  of  new  and  cheerful  views  of  human  life,  and  of 
new  gifts  of  expression.  What  is  best  in  tlie  literature 
of  Massachusetts  belongs  to  that  period  of  awakening, 
or  directly  followed  it. 

This  is  not  to  say  that  the  credit  of  cur  literature  is 
due  to  the  development  of  Unitarianism  ;  it  would  have 
been  due  to  whatever  svstem  had  succeeded  in  loosen- 
ins:  the  old  bonds.  The  liberalizins:  influence  has  con- 
tinned,  and  is  a  present  moving  force  in  many  religious 
organizations  in  various  parts  of  the  State.  For  liber- 
alism is  not  wholly,  not  even  primarily,  a  matter  either 
of  belief  or  disbelief,  provided  we  leave  out  the  mon- 
strous doctrine  of  endless  and  hopeless  punishment ; 
it  is  rather  an  attitude  or  condition  of  the  soul  in  rela- 
tion to  its  main  points  of  contact,  —  God,  our  fellow- 
men,  and  the  world  of  nature.  The  particular  dogmas 
that  are  held  are  mostly  unimportant  ;  the  spirit  is 
everything. 

It  happened  sixty  years  ago  that  nearly  all  the  emi- 
nent authors,  except  of  theological  books,  were  Unita- 
rians, while  to-day  they  are  of  many  denominations. 
Tliere  are  many  small  towns  which  the  liberalizing 
movement  but  slightly  touched  ;  and  the  western  ])art 
of  the  State  is  mostly  made  up  of  small  towns.  The 
shadow  of  the  seventeenth  century  still  hangs  over  many 
small  communities,  where,  with  the  old  rigidity  of  doc- 
trine, are  found  the  impress  of  old  customs  and  narrow 
ideas,  —  ignorance  of  general  literature  and  science; 
ignorance  of  biblical  criticism,  and  of  the  relative 
place  of  Judea  in  history  ;  ignorance  of  the  tendency 
of  philosophical  thought,  and  of  the  whole  world  of 
ideas  with  which  enlightened  men  are  occupied. 


COLLEGES  AND  MLMSTERS  211 

That  Ouabbin  and  other  small  towns  send  few  young 
men  to  college  is  partly  cause  and  partly  effect,  in  rela- 
tion to  public  sentiment.  Not  having  been  moved 
greatly  by  the  liberalizing  spirit,  there  is  not  a  public 
sentiment  which  inspires  a  desire  for  higher  education  ; 
and  there  being  among  the  citizens  few  who  have  been 
highly  educated,  the  public  sentiment  is  upon  a  low 
level.  It  is  like  a  vicious  circle  in  reasoning,  illus- 
trated by  the  biblical  aphorism,  "  The  destruction  of 
the  poor  is  their  poverty." 

The  prevalent  belief  w^as  that  a  college  education, 
though  desirable,  was  not  essential  to  a  physician  or  a 
lawyer.  "When  it  comes  ter  studyin'  the  Scripters," 
said  Deacon  Rawson,  "a  man  wants  ter  know  the  iden- 
ticle  words  that  aour  Lord  an'  his  disciples  spoke. 
Some  says  that's  Hebrew,  an'  some  says  Greek. 
Whichever  'tis,  it  stands  tu  reason  thet  a  minister's 
got  ter  know  them  air  tongues.  It's  a  nawfle  'sponsi- 
bility,  this  ere  breakin'  the  bread  o'  life  ;  an'  he  who 
doos  it  orter  know  every  grain  it's  made  on." 

It  was  agreed,  then,  that  a  minister  was  to  be  edu- 
cated, and  no  kind  of  beneficence  was  so  general  and 
so  cheerfully  bestowed,  even  in  Ouabbin,  as  the  aid  to 
young  men  intending  to  preach.  Much  was  done  by 
societies,  but  more  by  individuals  to  whom  worthy 
candidates  were  known.  The  results  were  generally 
satisfactory,  but  there  were  sad  exceptions.  A  well- 
constructed  machine  turns  out  uniform  work  year  after 
year,  but  who  can  say  that  a  mind  will  remain  as  it  is 
moulded  .^  In  minds  of  low  order  there  is  no  danger  of 
change;  and  some  of  the  noblest  are  equally  stable, 
because  they  are  so  exalted  and  fervent  that  they  view 
all  things  throuLih  the  medium  of  a  feeling  which  never 


2  12  QUABBIN 

cools.  The  extremes  of  intellect  in  a  divinity  class  set 
an  observer  to  thinkinc;-  ;  brilliancy  and  ardor  at  one 
end,  and  plodding  diilness  at  the  other.  A  reasoning 
mind,  that  perceives,  compares,  and  weighs,  must,  con- 
sciously or  unconsciously,  take  new  attitudes  from  time 
to  time  toward  any  complex  system  of  doctrines.  No- 
tice the  shifting  theories  of  medicine,  the  constant 
stretch  or  reversal  of  judicial  decisions,  the  evanes- 
cence of  })hi]osophical  conceptions,  and  consider  if  it 
is  to  be  supposed  that  theology  is  unchangeable  ? 
From  the  time  of  Arius  and  Athanasius  the  debatable 
ground  has  been  fought  over,  inch  by  inch,  and  the 
orthodoxy  of  one  century  becomes  the  heresy  of  the 
next.  The  successive  developments  of  dogma  (upward 
or  downward),  from  Cotton  Mather  to  Channing,  have 
been  slowly  and  painfully  accomplished  ;  and  it  would 
require  a  master  in  dialectics  to  state  intelligibly  the 
precise  intervening  stages. 

Theolo2:ical  students,  as  well  as  others  reared  under 
the  influence  of  Calvinism,  have  sometimes  found 
themselves  not  masters  but  slaves  of  their  convictions. 
In  spite  of  a  predetermination  to  abide  in  the  old  way, 
and  in  spite  of  the  ardor  of  a  faith  that  seeks  to  domi- 
nate reason,  men  sometimes  find  themselves  bornu  on 
an  irresistible  current,  and  landed  on  an  unwished-for 
shore.  The  conviction  of  an  unwelcome  truth,  or  what 
appears  to  be  truth,  comes  to  an  ardent  man  with  a 
physical  pang;  and  the  sudden  uprooting  of  a  long- 
cherished  belief  is  like  the  wrench  of  forceps  on  his 
jaw.  Apostasy  is  an  ugly  word,  and  is  generally  held 
to  include  a  wilful  sin  ;  when,  in  fact,  it  may  be  the 
brave  action  of  one  who  gives  up  friends,  place,  and 
honor,  to  follow  where  truth  leads.      Where  interested 


COLLEGES  AND  MINISTERS  213 

motives  do  not  enter,  and  the  mind  conscientiously 
weighs  the  evidence,  the  decision  reached,  however  er- 
roneous, can  never  be  morally  culpable.  To  speak  of 
a  mind  as  drifting,  is  to  use  an  inapt  metaphor,  for  the 
sanest  and  most  sympathetic  minds  may  move  in  op- 
posite directions  under  apparently  similar  influences. 
Lowell,  the  son  of  a  Unitarian  clergyman,  drifts  late  in 
life  into  the  Episcopal  Church,  and  accepts  a  sequence 
of  dogmas  he  had  been  taught  to  disbelieve.  Holmes, 
the  son  of  an  Orthodox  clergyman  in  the  same  city, 
drifts  into  Unitarianism,  rejects  the  Calvinistic  scheme 
of  redemption,  and  anchors  his  faith  on  the  boundless 
love  of  God. 

As  in  space,  outside  the  solar  system,  there  are  no 
points  of  compass,  so  in  pure  thought,  apart  from 
dogma,  there  is  neither  height  nor  depth,  right  hand 
nor  left  ;  all  movement  being  equally  free  and  fluid 
within  the  limits  of  the  orbit  traced  by  the  Creator  of 
intellijrence. 

This  was  not  understood  or  believed  in  Ouabbin,  and 
a  change  of  views  on  the  part  of  one  who  had  been  as- 
sisted in  college  was  considered  a  sin  of  the  deepest 
dye.  So  one  young  man  found  to  his  sorrow.  He  had 
taken  his  academical  degree,  and  then  had  to  tell  his 
benefactor  he  was  not  going  to  study  divinity,  because 
he  had  become  a  Unitarian.  The  wickedness  and  in- 
gratitude of  that  man,  and  his  utter  shamelcssncss ! 
And  there  was  no  remedy  nor  punishment  ;  he  had  got 
his  Latin  and  Greek,  and  it  could  not  be  shaken  out  of 
liim  ;  and  he  could  not  be  made  to  preach  what  he  did 
not  believe.  His  apostasy  was  for  some  years  a  dam- 
per to  the  enthusiasm  for  raising  up  ministers  by 
**  edd icatin'  "  poor  young  men. 


214  QUABBIISr 

People  did  not  think  of  the  struggle  and  pain  which 
the  change  had  cost  ///;//,  of  the  imputations  upon  his 
honor  and  manliness,  of  the  thrusts  at  his  indigence, 
of  the  breaking  of  old  friendships,  and  the  blight  upon 
his  future  life.  Those  who  knew  him  saw  by  his 
countenance  how  he  had  suffered.  His  clothes,  too, 
were  well  worn,  and  his  pockets  light,  when  he  went 
away  from  Ouabbin,  never  to  return. 

Suppose  he  had  taken  the  other  course,  and  patched 
up  a  compromise  with  his  conscience,  —  and  it  is  prob- 
able that  many  have  done  so,  —  what  a  strain  would  it 
have  been  to  do  what  was  expected  of  him  !  to  be 
silent  before  a  confiding  people  as  to  the  composition 
and  modernness  of  many  parts  of  the  sacred  canon  ;  to 
ignore  science  and  history  in  expounding  Genesis,  with 
regard  to  the  age  of  our  planet,  the  duration  of  human 
life,  or  the  origin  and  fortunes  of  the  Jewish  people  ; 
to  be  silent  upon  the  dual  source  of  parts  of  the  hexa- 
teuch,  and  upon  the  confounding  of  two  prophets  of 
different  eras  under  the  name  of  Isaiah  !  furthermore, 
to  ignore  the  truth  that  morals  is  a  progressive  science, 
and  that  the  dealings  of  God  with  men  are  probably  as 
intimate  and  authoritative  now  as  in  any  previous  age 
of  the  world.  Most  well-read  clergymen  know  the 
facts  established  by  biblical  criticism,  and  know  that 
they  are  none  the  less  true  because  sometimes  urged 
with  indecent  rancor  by  scoffers. 

The  scientist  does  not  blindly  repose  upon  the  theo- 
ries of  Kepler  or  Newton,  but  looks  for  any  new  light 
upon  celestial  mechanics.  The  physician  admits  that 
anatomy  and  therapeutics  have  been  developed  shice 
Galen  and  Ambrose  Pare ;  the  lawyer  knows  that  Coke 
upon  Littleton,  an  excellent  treatise  once,  is  mostly  ob- 


COLLEGES  AND   MINISTERS  21 S 

solete  to-day.  Why,  alone  among  learned  men,  must 
the  preacher  be  held  to  defend  corrupt  texts,  mistrans- 
lations, and  false  exegesis,  and  to  prove  t/iat  to  be 
stationary  which  has  never  ceased  to  rise  and  to  ad- 
vance with  the  advancing  and  broadening  ideas  of 
mankind  ?  We  are  told  that  such  inquiries  lead  to  infi- 
delity. Do  we  fear  to  know  the  truth  in  chemistry  or 
in  biology  ?  Do  we  not  sift  every  new  discovery  in  the 
laws  of  nature?  And  shall  we  conceal  v*'hat  is  true  in 
regard  to  the  Book  on  which  the  hopes  of  millions  rest  ? 
The  experiences  of  those  students  who  accepted 
help  from  individuals  or  societies  are  worth  consider- 
ing. In  spite  of  all  that  is  said  about  reciprocal 
brotherlv  love,  and  of  bearino:  one  another's  burdens, 
there  is  always  some  risk  of  injury  to  the  delicate  feel- 
ings and  to  the  moral  fibre  of  the  recipient  of  alms. 
When  he  comes  under  an  obligation,  he  is  no  longer 
his  own  master.  He  must  be  ready  to  render  an  ac- 
count not  only  of  the  use  he  makes  of  his  income,  but 
of  his  dress,  his  company,  and  all  his  doings.  The  cut 
of  a  coat,  the  color  of  a  cravat,  or  a  chance  visit  to  the 
city,  may  upset  him  in  the  mind  of  his  patron.  He 
dares  not  purchase  books,  except  text-books,  though  he 
may  be  hungering  for  intellectual  food.  Then  the 
habit  of  borrowing  in  itself  does  him  infinite  harm. 
When  an  emergency  arises,  he  does  not  shrink,  as  he 
ought,  from  incurring  debt.  Getting  relief  through 
the  pockets  of  another,  like  the  recourse  to  the  pawn- 
shop, or  the  use  of  opium  or  stimulants,  becomes  in 
time  a  chronic  disease,  which  may  take  a  lifetime  to 
get  rid  of.  Clergymen,  whose  income  in  many  par- 
ishes is  partly  eleemosynar}',  are  apt  to  become  habit- 
ual borrowers.      They  will  pay,  but  they  will  alw;iys  be 


2l6  QUABBIN 

pushing  loads  of  debt  before  them  as  upon  hand-bar- 
rows. By  the  time  one  loan  is  paid  they  are  in  straits 
for  another,  and  so  they  go  on,  forever  behind-hand. 
Others  besides  clergymen  get  into  the  baneful  habit. 
Trusting  and  guileless  themselves,  they  are  apt  to  at- 
tribute the  same  generous  feelings  to  others,  and  do 
not  dream  that,  with  every  application  for  temporary 
assistance,  they  are  lowering  themselves  before  the 
willino-  or  unwillins:  creditor. 

Bursaries  and  fellowships  are  legitimate  aids  to  in- 
digent students,  but,  unfortunately,  they  are  attainable 
by  few. 

Character  stands  for  so  much  more  than  culture,  that 
it  may  well  be  doubted  whether  a  collegiate  course  paid 
for  by  the  benevolent  is  worth  what  it  inevitably  costs 
in  moral  deterioration.  A  youth  who  has  made  a  fair 
beginning,  and  has  a  taste  for  classical  and  mathemati- 
cal studies,  will  be  sure  to  pursue  them,  even  without  a 
tutor.  But,  whatever  he  does,  even  to  the  renunciation 
of  his  hopes  and  dreams,  will  be  likely  to  be  better  for 
him  in  the  end  than  a  college  degree  for  which  he  has 
run  in  debt. 

Young  men  think  that  upon  graduating  they  will 
have  no  difficulty  in  speedily  earning  enough  to  pay 
back  with  interest  what  they  have  borrowed,  but  oppor- 
tunities for  lucrative  employment  are  rare,  and,  with 
the  increasing  numbers  of  educated  men,  are  becoming 
rarer.  The  teacher  or  tutor  in  our  day  seldom  earns 
more  than  enough  to  support  himself  reputably  ;  and 
after  some  years  the  thought  ot  his  college  debts  be- 
comes worse  to  him  than  a  convict's  ball  and  chain. 

Besides,  at  three  or  four  and  twent)^  his  feelings  as 
a  man,  long  held  under  guard,  begin  to  assert  them- 


COLLEGES  AND   MLXISTERS  2  1/ 

selves.  He  meets  ladies  of  his  own  age,  and  the  voice 
of  nature  cannot  be  always  silenced.  He  may  dally 
and  resist  ;  but  the  chances  are  that  at  some  unguarded 
moment  he  will  speak,  and  that  he  will  find  himself 
bound  in  honor  to  some  trustful  damsel,  long  before  he 
has  attained  a  position  that  will  enable  him  to  marry. 
The  whole  business  is  thorny  and  perplexing,  and  be- 
comes all  the  worse  with  the  increasing  requirements  in 
collegiate  and  professional  courses.  The  Creator  could 
not  have  intended  that  all  the  years  of  early  manhood 
should  be  spent  in  a  struggle  with  celibacy.  There 
should  be  some  way  to  begin  earlier,  and  to  push  for- 
ward faster,  the  higher  education,  so  as  to  bring  the 
student  into  working  relations  with  the  world  before 
the  bloom  of  his  best  years  has  departed,  and  his  coun- 
tenance, as  well  as  his  spirit,  is  *' sicklied  o'er  with  the 
pale  cast  of  thought."  This  feverish  condition  of  ado- 
lescence is  something  to  be  seriously  considered,  and 
the  youth  who  is  looking  forward  to  seven  years  of 
study  and  self-restraijit  should  be  sure  that  he  has  the 
will  and  the  power  to  carry  him  manfully  through  to 
the  end. 

One  student,  a  rich  man's  son,  was  rather  coltish 
while  in  college  ;  but  he  settled  down,  and  became  a 
staid  and  respectable  man,  though  always  of  a  jovous 
nature.  He  was  well  liked  by  all  classes,  and  in  later 
years  held  important  public  offices.  From  him  and 
his  family  and  friends  came  much  of  the  influence  that 
raised  the  district  schools.  A  diverting  story  was  told 
of  one  of  his  boyish  capers.  Whether  it  was  owing  to 
his  '*  cutting"  morning  prayers,  —  the  unpardonable 
sin  in  those  days,  —  or  inattention  to  studv,  or  some 
more  signal  breach  of  college  rules,  he  had  fcdlcn  under 


2l8  .         QUAE  BIN 

reproof,  and  did  not  seem  to  amend.  As  his  marks  for 
lessons  and  conduct  continued  to  be  unsatisfactory, 
the  '*  Prex  "  sent  for  him  and  told  him  he  had  written 
to  his  father  to  state  that,  if  there  were  not  a  speedy 
improvement,  his  connection  with  the  college  would 
cease.  The  young  man  bowed,  retired,  and  reflected. 
It  was  Saturday  evening,  and  the  next  mail-stage  for 
Ouabbin  would  leave  on  Monday  morning.  That  stage 
carried  an  unexpected  passenger,  who,  on  arrival,  got 
off  at  the  post-ofBce,  waited  until  the  mail  was  sorted, 
then  asked  for  letters  for  the  family,  received  the  one 
that  had  been  written  by  the  ^'  Prex  "  to  his  father,  and 
thereupon  returned  by  stage  to  college,  without  troub- 
ling his  family  with  a  call.  That  pressing  danger 
averted,  he  did  better.  The  "Prex"  doubtless  thought 
the  father  rather  indifferent  to  the  well-being  of  his 
son. 

He  was  probably  the  only  college  graduate  of  his 
generation  in  Ouabbin  who  did  not  study  for  the 
ministry. 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A    ROMANCE  2ig 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

MIGHT    HAVE    BEEN    A    ROMANCE 

Herman  Field  tauG:ht  a  select  school  in  the  old 
Masonic  Hall  in  Ouabbin  one  summer  durinsf  the  reion 
of  the  third  minister.  He  was  not  an  ill-looking  man 
even  at  first  sight,  but  whoever  looked  at  him  twice 
recognized  the  distinctive  marks  of  character  and  power. 
He  was  of  good  height,  well  proportioned,  with  a  large 
head,  prominent  features,  fair  hair,  and  violet-blue  eyes 
fine  enough  for  a  w^oman.  It  is  needless  to  mention  a 
beard  in  any  description  of  the  time,  for  everybody, 
except  Jews  and  foreign  fiddlers,  was  smoothly  shaven. 
For  an  excellent  reason  he  was  not  any  whit  too  well 
dressed  ;  but  whatever  he  wore  was  neat,  and  never  in 
the  least  shabby.  His  face  could  not  be  called  hand- 
some; but  when  he  talked  he  seemed  to  those  who  met 
his  eyes  so  truthful,  animated,  and  kind,  that  he  won 
all  hearts. 

He  was  at  the  end  ot  his  third  year  in  college,  and 
was  on  leave  of  absence  for  tw^elve  weeks.  He  was 
born  in  Northern  Vermont,  where  his  father  had  a  small 
farm.  For  his  education  he  had  had  a  little  assistance 
from  relatives,  and  had  worked  a  few  months  each  \'car, 
except  the  last,  as  a  lumberman  on  some  of  the  tribu- 
taries of  the  St.  Lawrence.  He  was  a  strong  and  reso- 
lute youth,  and  swung  a  mighty  axe.       As  he  li\-ed  and 


220  QUABBIN 

dressed  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  he  had  been  able 
up  to  that  time  to  make  both  ends  meet.  Hence  it  was 
that  his  hands  were  rather  large,  with  stout  joints  and 
hard  palms.  With  delicate,  well-gloved  hands,  and  a 
nev/er  suit,  he  might  have  been  a  noted  figure  anv- 
where.  His  complexion,  hair,  and  eyes  were  Saxon, 
and  there  was  a  tradition  that  his  mother  was  the  grand- 
daughter of  one  of  Burgoyne's  captured  Hessians. 

On  his  arrival  he  had  called,  as  a  matter  of  courtesy, 
upon  the  minister  and  Deacon  Rawson,  both  of  them 
members  of  the  school  committee,  and  upon  Mr.  Grant. 
Being  invited  to  tea  at  the  house  of  the  latter,  he  met 
the  daughters,  and  was  dazzled. 

Although  Ouabbin  was  loath  to  acknowledge  it,  these 
young  ladies  were  both  beautiful.  Venus  herself  would 
have  been  pronounced  ill-favored  by  the  damsels  at  the 
foot  of  Olympus  or  Ida,  if  they  had  imagined  her  super- 
cilious and  ''airy."  Eliza  Grant,  being  tall,  was  spite- 
fully called  the  "hay-pole,"  and  Lois,  who  was  short, 
was  known  as  the  "  chunk."  Eliza,  a  slender  and  fair 
girl,  with  dark  hair  and  gray  eyes,  had  a  gift  that  is 
rare  with  her  sex,  a  natural  talent  for  mathematics. 
She  was  never  more  agreeably  occupied  than  in  geom- 
etry or  algebra,  and  it  was  said  she  had  made  some 
progress  with  more  abstruse  branches.  In  her  reading 
she  preferred  the  logical  works  then  in  vogue,  such  as 
Palev's  "  Evidences,"  and  some  of  the  Bridfrewater  Trea- 
tises.  Latin  she  liked  to  the  extent  of  reading  Livy 
and  Salkist,  but  she  did  not  care  for  Virgil.  In  her 
opinion  ^neas  was  a  poor  creature,  and  Dido  a  silly 
widow  wlio  had  not  profited  as  she  should  have  done  by 
one  experience.  On  the  side  of  sentiment  she  was  far 
from  callous  :  she  was  intensely  feminine  and  delicate; 


MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN  A    ROMAXCE  221 

but  this  side  of  her  nature  was  seldom  exhibited,  and 
scarcely  acknowledged  to  herself. 

Her  sister  Lois  had  a  taste  for  languages.  Virgil 
was  her  favorite  author.  In  French  she  had  followed 
eagerly  the  adventures  of  Telemaque,  and  had  wept 
over  the  woes  of  Corinne.  Besides,  she  had  read  a  few 
cantos  of  the  "  Inferno,"  a  thing  almost  unknown  in  that 
day.  In  her  manner  she  was  open  and  engaging,  ap- 
parently as  playful  as  a  kitten ;  but  in  fact  she  was  dis- 
posed to  flirt,  though  no  one  would  have  guessed  it 
from  her  innocent  brown  eyes. 

After  the  tea,  at  which  Eliza  presided,  and  during 
the  music  that  followed,  Herman  Field  had  time  to 
take  account  of  his  impressions.  He  had  never  in  his 
life  been  in  a  city,  and  had  never  before  been  seated  at 
a  table  with  young  ladies  like  these.  It  was  in  vain  he 
said  to  himself  that  they  were  flesh  and  blood  like  other 
people ;  for  they  were  quite  unlike  any  women  he  had 
met.  Such  nicety  in  the  results  of  the  toilet ;  such 
style  in  dress  and  adornment ;  such  simple  and  serene 
manners,  and  unconscious  ease  of  movement ;  such 
graceful  hands;  such  musical  voices,  perfect  accent,  and 
easy,  unpedantic  English,  — all  these  things  came  to 
him  in  a  series  of  surprises,  and  made  a  revelation  that 
never  comes  but  to  one  who  is  country  born. 

Some  French  books  on  the  table  led  to  conversation, 
in  which  it  appeared  that  the  visitor  had  no  knowledge 
of  that  language  except  what  he  had  learned  from  the 
patois  of  Canadian  raftsmen.  He  admitted  also  his 
ignorance  of  Italian,  but  gratified  Lois  by  praising  her 
favorite  Virgil. 

Then  by  inquiry  he  learned  what  were  Eliza's  studios, 
and  what  ground  she  had  gone  over,  and  he  saw  that 


222  QUABBIN 

she  was  quite  in  advance  of  him.  He  began  to  think 
that  a  college  course  which  left  out  modern  languages 
and  applied  science, — the  chief  subjects  of  living  in- 
terest,—  was  a  mouldy  relic  of  mediaevalism,  and  that 
a  depree  based  on  such  a  course  was  a  fetish.  Here 
were  two  young  women  who  were  his  equals  in  most 
things,  and  his  superiors  in  many,  and  had  spent  fewer 
years  in  studv  than  he  had,  and  they  were  not  spec- 
tacled nor  unsexed  nor  dried  up,  but  fresh  and  bloom- 
ins:.     He  was  humiliated. 

But  reflections  upon  courses  of  study  could  not  long 
occupy  his  mind  while  he  was  in  such  company.  For 
the  first  time  he  recognized  the  power  that  grace  and 
culture  lend,  and  felt  that  there  was  no  creature  on 
earth  like  a  woman  of  beauty  and  intelligence,  with 
refined  manners  and  speech.  It  seemed  to  him,  further, 
that  this  was  a  new  discovery,  made  by  him  for  the  first 
time  in  the  world. 

He  was  prolonging  his  visit  quite  beyond  the  usual 
limit,  but  seemed  fascinated,  and  powerless  to  depart. 
He  persuaded  the  young  ladies  to  sing  again,  and  then 
rose  to  leave.  Mr.  Grant  came  in  opportunely,  and  a 
few  words  of  ordinary  courtesy  were  exchanged.  Then 
Field  departed,  a  heavy-hearted  man.  The  fall  in  his 
barometer  was  caused  by  a  complex  idea  which  came 
in  a  flash  :  — 

One  year  more  in  college. 

Three  years  afterwards  at  a  seminary. 

And  tiien?     Wliat  would  happen  then?     That  was  the  rub. 

For  he  was  two  and  twenty,  full  of  vigor,  with  not  a 
fibre  lax  ;  and  his  whole  nature,  like  some  perfectly 
strung  and  perfectly  attuned  instrument,  was  ready  to 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A    ROMANCE  223 

throb    with    harmonies    if    touched    or   even   breathed 
upon. 

A  few  days  later  Field  met  Miss  Lois  Grant  on  the 
street,  and  was  intending  to  pass  with  a  bow,  but 
stopped  as  he  saw  she  was  about  to  speak.  After  the 
usual  greeting,  she  said,  — 

*'  Our  cousin  Harry  Lyman  is  with  us  for  a  few 
days,  and  we  are  thinking  of  a  walk  over  '  the  moun- 
tain,' as  people  call  our  small  hill,"  pointing  to  the 
sharp  cone  behind  the  meeting-house;  "and,  as  it  will 
be  new  to  you  as  well  as  to  him,  Eliza  and  I  have 
thought  you  might  like  to  go  with  us." 

"  I  shall  be  delighted,  if  "  — 

''If  you  are  at  liberty;  yes,  we  thought  of  that,  and 
have  fixed  upon  to-morrow  afternoon,  when  you  have 
half  a  holiday." 

"  You  are  very  kind.  I  thank  you  for  thinking  of 
me.     I  will  go  with  you,  with  pleasure." 

About  three  o'clock  the  next  day.  Field,  with  the  girls 
and  their  cousin  Harry  Lyman,  started  up  the  North 
Hill.  There  was  scarcely  a  visible  path,  and  the  bushes 
were  thick  and  scraggy  ;  but  the  ascent,  though 
steep  and  rough,  v/as  not  long,  and  the  crown  of  the 
hill  was  soon  reached.  There  was  not  a  fine  tree,  or  a 
spring  of  water,  or  a  wild-flower  on  the  way,  —  a  most 
uninteresting  little  hill  ;  but,  as  the  party  went  on, 
the  view  began  to  broaden,  and  in  a  short  time  they 
came  to  a  clearing  and  a  tolerably  level  path. 

Field  had  not  thought  of  making  choice  of  a  com- 
panion, preferring  to  leave  everything  to  chance,  and  he 
talked  with  one  or  another,  as  it  happened.  But  after 
a  time  Lois,  the  younger,  leaving  her  sister  and  cousin 
to  go  on  before,  fell  back  and  walked  with  Field.      It 


224  QUAE  BIN 

was  quite  indifferent  to  him  with  vv'hich  of  them  he 
should  walk,  only  he  had  fancied  that  he  might  be  more 
at  ease  with  Eliza,  who  was  less  vivacious,  and  nearer 
his  own  age.  He  was  not  awkward,  but  rather  shy, 
and  willing  to  let  his  companion  take  the  lead. 

"You  spoke  of  Canada  the  other  day,"  said  Lois.  ''  I 
should  like  so  much  to  visit  it.  Most  of  the  romance 
of  the  continent  hangs  about  the  old  French  settle- 
ments." 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  "I  have  often  been  in  Canada; 
it  is  not  very  far  from  my  home  ;  but  there  was  no  room 
for  romance  in  a  lumberman's  life.  I  have  been  through 
the  Chateaugay,  and  on  the  Missisquoi  River,  and  twice 
I  have  been  to  Montreal,  though  not  as  a  tourist,  Miss 
Grant." 

Lois  thought  there  was  a  significant  emphasis  in  the 
last  phrase,  and,  looking  at  him  inquiringly,  said,  — 

"  And  if  you  did  not  go  as  a  tourist  .'* " 

"With  a  party  of  men  on  a  lumber  raft,"  said  Field 
simply.  "We  drifted  slowly,  and  I  had  plenty  of  time 
for  the  scenery." 

"Then  this  distinguished-looking  man  has  been  a 
woodchopper,"  thought  Lois;  but  what  she  said  was,  "I 
suppose  Montreal  is  very  beautiful." 

"  It  is  beautifully  situated,  with  a  grand  mountain 
behind  it,  and  it  has  fine  churches  ;  but  it  has  nothing 
of  the  boldness  or  the  majesty  of  Quebec.  ■  Upon  that 
high  rock,  and  about  its  foot,  you  see  what  old  France 
was,  and  what  Britain  has  done  with  it.  But  I  know 
Quebec  very  slightly.      I  never  went  there"  — 

"  Professionally,"  said  the  girl  with  a  sly  look,  as  if 
to  help  him  out. 

"No,"  said  he  with  a  smile,  "not  'professionally;'   I 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A    ROMANCE  22^ 

went  to  Quebec  for  pleasure,  in  a  steamboat  from 
Montreal." 

Now  to  hear  about  Montreal  and  Quebec  was  not 
Lois's  object ;  she  wanted  to  know  about  the  past  life 
of  her  companion.  So,  taking  her  courage  in  her  two 
hands,  and  looking  quite  demure,  she  asked,  "  Do  the 
lumbermen  read  Greek  and  Latin  ?  " 

"Not  much,"  replied  P^ield  with  a  laugh.  ''A  little 
mathematics,  enough  to  tell  how  many  feet  of  lumber 
a  log  will  '  scale,'  is  more  to  the  purpose.  But  I  see 
how  it  is.  You  wonder  how  a  woodchopper  became  a 
student.     Confess  it  now  !  " 

Lois  only  smiled  ;  there  was  no  need  to  speak,  and 
Field  went  on, — 

"  Well,  I  will  tell  you.  I  am  a  farmer's  son.  By 
chance  I  got  a  Latin  grammar  and  reader,  and  after  I 
had  learned  the  rudiments  I  was  no  longer  my  own 
master.  I  was  so  possessed  by  the  desire  for  knowl- 
edge, that  I  cared  for  little  else.  To  go  on  with  my 
studies  it  was  necessary  to  leave  home,  and  I  was  poor. 
When  I  was  sixteen  I  took  an  axe  and  went  into  the 
woods,  so  as  to  earn  enough  to  keep  me  at  school.  You 
see  it  is  the  reverse  of  what  you  thought  ;  it  was  the 
student  that  became  a  woodchopper.  There  were  diffi- 
culties and  trials,  but  not  worth  speaking  about,  since 
they  are  passed.  At  school  and  college  I  worked  as  I 
had  done  in  the  woods.  It  is  strange  when  I  think  of 
it.  I  seem  to  have  moved  like  a  young  whirlwind,  —  but 
why  am  I  telling  you  this  !  it  cannot  be  interesting, 
and  I  beg  your  pardon." 

*'Yes,  Mr.  Field,  it  is  deeply  interesting.  I  have 
never  had  any  obstacles  to  overcome,  and  wlien  I  hear 
you,  I  fancy  myself  strong  and  brave." 


226  QUABBIN 

A  briirht  flush  crimsoned  his  face  as  he  said,  *'  It 
was  no  bravery  ;  I  couldn't  help  myself ;  it  was  impos- 
sible to  stop  when  I  had  my  fate  in  my  own  hands,  — 
in  the  shape  of  an  axe-helve.  Twice,  since,  I  have 
spent  some  time  with  my  old  friends  in  the  woods. 
This  year  I  thought  I  would  try  keeping  school  for  a 
change." 

''  After  you  had  become  interested  in  your  studies, 
wasn't  it  hard  to  go  back  to  a  logging-camp  }  " 

"  Yes,  something  of  a  shock  ;  some  disconiforts." 

"And  nothing  to  amuse  yourself  with," 

*'0h,  yes;  there  were  sports.  We  caught  pickerel 
through  the  ice,  and  we  snared  partridges  and  rabbits. 
But  my  main  resource  was  in  three  thin  books." 

"  May  I  ask  what  they  were  ? " 

"  The  New  Testament,  the  Odyssey,  and  Horace. 
Pitch-pine  knots  were  plenty." 

''  I  really  envy  you.  My  cousin  —  not  this  one,  not 
Harry  —  is  quite  pathetic  over  his  hard  study;  but  he 
has  never  earned  a  dollar,  nor  needed  one.  But  you 
know  the  saying,  ^/^/i"  coronat  opits,  and  I  suppose  you 
have  an  object  in  view,  something  worth  your  labor 
and  self-denial."  Lois  was  finding  her  companion's 
quiet  energy  inspiring. 

"That  is  the  difficulty,"  he  replied.  "  I  haven't  any 
definite  object,  except  to  get  the  best  outfit  I  can.  I 
hope  to  find  something  worth  doing." 

"  And  your  parents  and  relatives  }  " 

"  My  relatives  are  troubled  that  I  don't  make  a 
choice,  but  I  think  it  is  better  to  wait  to  see  what  I  am 
fit  for." 

"  Perhaps  they  wish  you  to  study  for  the  ministry." 

"  They  do." 


MIGHT  HA  VE   BEEN  A    ROMANCE  22^] 

"  It  is  a  noble  profession,"  she  said  softly. 

*' Yes,  if  a  man  felt  that  he  was  called  to  it,"  he 
answered,  with  something  like  a  sigh. 

*'  I  should  suppose  a  man  was  '  called '  to  the  profes- 
sion he  was  best  fitted  for." 

"  I  believe  that  is  true  ;  but  some  hold  that  a  minis- 
ter should  feel  that  a  personal  demand  has  been  made 
upon  him,  as  upon  the  infant  Samuel.  If  that  is  what 
is  meant  by  a  *  calling,'  I  have  none." 

''But  you  have  no  doubts,  —  no  trouble  about  doc- 
trines .'*  There  has  been  lately  a  painful  case  here." 
The  young  man  blushed  suddenly  to  the  roots  of  his 
blond  hair,  and  after  a  slight  hesitation  said,  — 

"  No,  I  cannot  say  I  have  any  serious  doubts  at 
present  ;  but  suppose  I  should  have,  by  and  by  '^ " 

*'  Sufficient  for  the  day  "  — 

"  That  proverb  may  have  two  faces.  My  conscience 
does  not  trouble  me  now  ;  but  now  I  am  free.  Sup- 
pose when  the  doubt  came  I  were  not  free  ;  a  change 
of  faith  then  might  mean  dishonor." 

Just  what  this  usually  astute  young  woman  had  been 
aiming  at  by  her  leading  questions  she  herself  could 
not  have  told.  Various  trains  of  luminous  thouiiht 
shot  through  her  brain,  not  consecutively,  but  com- 
mingled like  the  flashings  of  fire-flies.  Now  it  was 
that  her  father  might  save  this  brave  man  from  further 
trial  and  anxiety.  Her  father  was  rich  enough ;  still 
she  knew  he  would  not  do  it  ;  for  he  was  one  of  those 
who  had  aided  Graham,  — he  who  had  turned  Unitarian. 
Now  it  was  that  four  years  must  pass  —  and  here  she 
involuntarily  made  the  addition  of  that  figure  to  her 
own  age.  Now  it  was  that  her  interest  in  a  stranger 
was   absurd,   that  her   sympath}',   perhaps,   was  of   the 


228  QUABBIN 

imaginative  kind,  such  as  one  takes  in  the  hero  of  an 
unreal  drama.  "  At  all  events,"  she  said  to  herself, 
"he  is  a  man  of  mind,  of  feeling,  and  character  ;  and 
such  eyes  !  He  is  to  be  here  twelve  weeks  more  ;  no, 
ten  weeks  only  ;  only  ten  weeks.     We  shall  see." 

They  had  reached  the  part  of  the  ridge  from  which 
they  looked  down  upon  the  North  Village,  immediately 
under  the  cliff.  At  the  distance  it  seemed  only  a 
spread  of  broad  maple  tops,  with  here  and  there  a 
chimney  or  a  bit  of  a  white  house  showing  through  the 
interstices.  There  was  also  a  factory,  whose  dull  ugli- 
ness was  relieved  by  the  shrubbery  on  a  brambly  knoll, 
and  then  by  a  high  hill  behind  it.  The  view  is  so 
unexpected,  and  so  directly  dozuJi,  that  it  gives  a  singu- 
lar pleasure. 

Turning  and  looking  westward,  they  saw  successive 
ranges  of  wooded  hills,  that  rose  and  receded  in  distant 
undulations. 

Field  sat  down  with  his  companion  to  enjoy  the  pros- 
pect, and  neither  of  them  noticed  that  the  other  two 
had  begun  to  descend.  After  a  while  he  rose,  walked 
a  few  steps  westward,  and,  looking  down,  saw  Eliza 
and  her  cousin  far  below,  getting  over  the  wall  into 
the  road  that  leads  around  the  base  of  the  hill  to  the 
village. 

**  Come,  Miss  Grant,"  he  said,  returning  to  the  place 
where  he  left  her.  '*  Come  !  They  have  fully  half  a 
mile  the  start  of  us." 

He  offered  her  his  hand,  but  with  a  gesture  she 
declined  it,  and  at  the  same  time  made  a  quick  move- 
ment to  rise.  In  a  moment  her  face  became  white  ; 
she  groaned,  but  onl\-  half-audibly,  compressed  her  lips, 
and  then,  staggering,  sank  back  upon  the  turf,  and  lay 


MIGHT  HAVE   BEEN  A    ROMAxXCE  229 

unconscious.  Field  saw  that  she  had  fainted,  and  knew 
that  there  was  no  water  or  other  restorative  at  hand, 
and  no  house  within  half  a  mile.  He  was  naturally  in 
a  great  perplexity.  He  looked  again  for  Eliza  and 
Harry,  and  found  they  had  turned  the  curve  of  the 
road,  and  were  out  of  sight.  One  of  Lois's  feet  was 
left  exposed,  and  he  saw  a  hole  in  her  boot,  made  by 
the  short,  sharp  stub  of  a  bush  near  by,  on  which  was 
a  stain  of  blood.  Evidently  she  had  trodden  upon  this, 
as  upon  a  spike,  and  had,  probably,  also  wrenched  her 
ankle.  The  sudden  pain  had  caused  a  shock  that  ren- 
dered her  insensible.  There  was  no  time  for  reflection, 
nor  for  dallying.  He  quickly  bound  her  injured  foot 
and  ankle  with  a  handkerchief,  and,  taking  her  up  care- 
fully, carried  her  like  a  child  down  the  long  slope  of 
the  pasture  to  the  road.  He  never  knew  how  he  man- 
aged to  get  over  the  wall  with  his  burden.  The  burden 
had  grown  momently  more  precious,  and  in  all  his 
veins  ''the  eloquent  blood  told  an  ineffable  tale." 

He  placed  the  girl  upon  a  grassy  bank  at  the  road- 
side and  waited,  hoping  that  some  vehicle  would  pass 
on  its  way  to  the  village.  None  came,  and  he  again 
took  her  in  his  arms  and  was  walking  on,  when  she 
opened  her  eyes.  They  were  dazed  with  surprise,  and 
then  wild  with  terror.  ''  What  has  happened  }  How 
dare  you.-^     Put  me  down,  I  say  !  " 

"Dear  Lois,"  he  said  gently,  ''you  fainted  from  the 
injury  to  your  foot  and  ankle.  There  was  nothing  to 
be  done  but  bring  you  down  the  hill." 

"I  will  walk,"  she  said  with  wounded  dignity.  But 
when  he  lowered  her  from  his  arms  she  could  not  put 
her  wounded  foot  to  the  ground,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
save  her  from  fallimr. 


230  QUABBIN 

"  You  had  better  sit  here  on  the  bank,"  he  said  ; 
*' some  one  may  come  with  a  wagon." 

He  assisted  her  to  a  comfortable  seat,  and  stood  at  a 
respectful  distance.  Meanwhile  the  girl  wept,  —  sin- 
cere, maidenly  tears  ;  and,  between  physical  pain  and 
offended  modesty,  she  sobbed  like  an  infant. 

Before  long  a  wagon  came  in  sight,  and  the  girl, 
having  been  lifted  into  it  by  Field,  was  tenderly  car- 
ried home. 

The  injury  to  the  foot  and  ankle,  though  painful,  was 
not  very  serious,  and  it  soon  yielded  to  treatment ;  but 
there  might  be  impalpable  effects  more  lasting. 

Eliza  was  usually  amiable  and  sympathetic,  but  on 
this  occasion,  after  the  doctor's  visit,  she  was  quite 
acrimonious  in  her  colloquy  with  her  sister.  Said 
she, — 

"  The  village  people  will  all  be  talking  of  your  acci- 
dent, and  they  won't  spare  you." 

"  What  can  thev  sav  ?  " 

"They  will  hint  more  than  they  will  say.  They  may 
intimate  that  a  girl  might  be  willing  to  sprain  her  ankle, 
just  a  little,  to  be  carried  in  a  vouno^  man's  arms." 

*'AVell,  sister  Eliza,  let  them  say  such  mean  things 
rather  than  you." 

''I  suppose,"  said  Eliza,  with  a  little  nervous  laugh, 
**  that  your  hero  availed  himself  of  the  proximity  of  a 
pair  of  lips." 

"Eliza  Grant,"  said  Lois  with  indignation,  ''I 
shouldn't  answer  the  insinuation,  for  my  part,  but  it 
touches  a  man  who  would  be  too  proud  to  defend  him- 
self, however  mucli  he  felt  liurt  by  it.  So,  let  me  tell 
you  that  a  father  couldn't  have  been  more  tender  to 
his  child,  nor  an  an^-el  nicer  to  a  nun.     I  am  ashamed 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A   ROMANCE  23  I 

of  you!  I  know  no  more  of  Mr.  Field  than  I  have  seen 
to-clay,  but  I  think  there  are  few  men  like  him." 

''He  has  a  zealous  defender." 

''  He  needs  none." 

''And  why  did  you  possess  yourself  of  him,  in  place 
of  Cousin  Harry  }  " 

"You  have  always  'possessed  yourself  of  Cousin 
Harry  before." 

"Yes;  but  I  might  have  wished  to  talk  with  the 
schoolmaster  to-day.  What  had  you  to  talk  about  all 
the  afternoon  }  " 

"  He  told  me  something  of  his  past  life." 

"And  his  hopes  for  the  future,  perhaps," 

"  Not  one  v/ord." 

"When  a  man  becomes  confidential  as  to  his  historv, 
it  is  generally  a  prelude." 

"  To  a  declaration,  you  mean.  Well,  my  kind  sister, 
let  me  tell  you  that  no  word  of  love,  or  even  of  friend- 
ship, was  spoken." 

"Then  all  your  arts  were  vain." 

"  I  used  no  arts." 

"  O  sister,  you  are  known.  You  look  innocent, 
but  you  are  sometimes  '  spidery,'  as  I  have  heard  you 
confess. 

"  If  I  am  ever  'spidery,'  it  is  toward  foolish  creatures 
who  deserve  to  be  caught.  Mr  Field  would  make  any 
'spider'  forego  her  instincts,  and  become  a  vegetarian. 
You  can  try  him  for  yourself  when  he  comes  again." 

"Thank  you,  sister;  our  ex{)ericnces  would  not  be 
equal.  /  wouldn't  sprain  my  ankle,  not  even  to  be 
carried  in  arms  by  a  father,  or  —  what  was  it  }  Oh,  )'es, 
—  or  an  angel." 

Lois   turned   away  her   head,  too   much   annoved   to 


232  QUABBIISr 

continue  the  conversation.  It  was  unusual  for  her  sis- 
ter to  show  such  irritation.  There  was  ?i possible  cause, 
but  she  did  not  like  to  assume  it. 

After  the  accident  to  the  **  chunk,"  tongues  were 
busy  and  eyes  were  on  the  watch  ;  but  Field,  who  had 
learned  from  the  doctor  that  the  accident  was  slight, 
simply  left  his  card  at  the  house,  and  then  kept  aloof, 
that  there  might  be  no  ground  for  gossip.  JMr.  Grant 
was  not  the  confidant  of  either  daughter,  and  he 
naturally  w\as  silent. 

There  are  things  that  cannot  be  undone,  and  the 
arms  that  had  held  Lois  Grant  would  not  forget  the 
pressure  of  the  form  they  had  enclosed.  They  had 
held  heaven  for  a  minute  ;  the  thrilling  sensation  at- 
tested that ;  whether  the  heart  was  engaged  w^as  another 
matter.  Field  was  resolute  not  to  put  himself  again  in 
the  way  of  temptation  ;  yet  some  disturbing  influence 
was  all  the  time  confusing  his  points  of  compass  as  he 
walked,  as  if  his  way  home  were  not  toward  his  one- 
story  boarding-house,  but  in  another  direction. 

Six  weeks  passed,  and  he  had  not  called  again  ;  Lois 
and  Eliza  had  counted  the  time.  Had  he  been  as  art- 
ful as  he  was  guileless,  he  could  not  in  any  other  way 
have  awakened  so  surely  their  curiosity  and  interest. 
I  say  "their,"  because  Eliza  had  proposed  that  when  he 
called  she  v,^ould  looj^  a  little  closer  at  the  paragon. 
But  he  kept  away  from  them,  and  yet  made  no  calls 
elsewhere  ;  so  said  the  gossips,  and  they  knew. 

Three  weeks  passed,  and  there  remained  but  one 
more.  He  began  his  farewell  calls  with  the  minister, 
wdio  w\as  very  affable.  Learning  that  his  visitor  had 
some  thought  of  studying  divinity,  he  broke  out  into 
an  eloquent  discourse  in  his  finest  phrases,  upon  the 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A    ROMANCE  233 

duty  and  delight  of  serving  the  Master,  and  suggested 
that  even  when  the  whole  world  had  been  converted, 
and  the  souls  of  all  men  were  kindled  with  divine  love, 
the  enthusiastic  Christians  would  seek  for  new  worlds 
to  conquer,  and  would  even  try  to  build  a  railroad  to 
the  fixed  stars,  so  as  to  carry  to  the  remotest  bounds 
of  the  universe  the  blessed  news  of  Christ's  redemption. 

Of  any  practical  suggestion  as  to  the  completion  of 
his  studies  there  was  not  a  word.  With  a  charming 
smile  the  minister  bade  him  farewell. 

After  calling  on  Deacon  Rawson  and  the  young  doc- 
tor, who  had,  as  he  said,  "•  reduced  the  luxation  of  the 
talus  "  on  that  fateful  day,  Field  thought  he  must  at 
least  leave  a  card  with  the  Misses  Grant.  Much  as:i- 
tated  in  fact,  but  outwardly  calm,  he  called,  and  was 
shown  in.  Miss  Eliza,  as  it  happened,  was  out  of  town, 
and  Lois  alone  received  him.  A  great  joy  and  a  great 
fear  fell  upon  him  together.  He  seemed  to  float  in  air, 
and  words  came  which  he  had  not  sought ;  so  that  his 
manner  was  easily  confident  while  his  knees  were  shak- 
ing, and  his  phrases  were  neatly  turned  while  he  did 
not  know  what  he  was  saying. 

What  he  had  been  thinkin2^  about  durinji  the  nine 
weeks  since  he  had  carried  that  charming  girl  in  his 
arms  he  could  not  have  told.  But  there  were  indica- 
tions of  a  struggle  ;  his  studies  had  been  neglected  ;  he 
had  been  moody  and  silent ;  and  his  landlady  had  told 
a  neighbor  that  he  had  become  ''amazin'  differkilt  abaout 
his  vittles."  But  now  he  thought  he  was  calm.  On 
one  point  he  was  immovably  determined,  and  that  was 
not  to  approach  her,  but  to  leave  an  ample  cool  space 
of  air  between  her  sphere  and  his  own.  Moreover,  he 
would  not  speak  to  her  except  in  the  ordinary  language 


234  QUABBIN 

of  civility.  There  was  but  the  slightest  reference  to 
the  incident  that  for  half  an  hour  brought  them  so  near 
together.  He  was  nervous,  like  most  persons  acting  a 
part,  but  carried  himself  fairly  well.  She  had  half  ex- 
pected some  tender  words,  and  wondered  at  his  indif- 
ference or  sincfular  self-command.  Their  conversation 
was  void  of  all  interest,  mere  banality  ;  yet  both  were 
giddy  with  excitement.  He  saw  that  the  scene  was 
becoming  painful,  and  rose  to  take  leave ;  and  she, 
stepping  frankly  forward,  held  out  her  hand.  As  he 
took  it,  their  eyes  met  ;  and  in  an  instant  —  neither 
could  tell  how  it  happened  —  in  an  instant  her  head  was 
against  his  breast,  and  his  arms  were  arovmd  her  neck. 
The  movement  was  not  consciously  his. 

Then,  with  a  sudden  effort,  and  with  something  like 
the  cry  of  a  lost  soul,  —  if  souls  ever  cry  audibly,  —  he 
seized  her  hand,  kissed  it  passionately,  tore  away  from 
her,  while  a  flood  of  tears  came  from  his  eyes,  and  left 
the  house. 

He  was  gone  ;  he  had  not  uttered  a  word  of  love, 
and  he  had  not  kissed  her  lips  or  cheeks.  He  was  a 
more  inscrutable  problem  than  ever. 

Herman  Field  should  have  returned  to  college,  but  a 
new  resolution  seized  him.  He  packed  his  trunk  to  be 
forwarded,  and,  with  a  light  hand-bag,  set  out  on  foot 
northward  on  the  very  evening  of  the  close  of  his 
school.  He  was,  like  Bunyan's  Pilgrim,  in  haste  to 
leave  the  City  of  Destruction.  Nothing  could  detain 
him.  He  walked  till  midnight,  and  slept  in  a  barn, 
then  breakfasted  at  a  farmhouse,  and  went  on.  So  for 
two  or  tliree  days  he  pushed  forward,  until  he  came 
upon  a  route  where  stage-coaches  passed  ;  and  by  that 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A   ROM  A  ATE  235 

line  he  was  carried  within  a  few  miles  of  his  father's 
house. 

How  he  was  received  by  the  family,  of  which  he  was 
the  idol  and  the  hope,  need  not  be  told.  After  the 
embraces  and  the  kindly  inquiries  that  follow  long 
absences,  Mrs.  Field  said,  — 

"Herman,  we've  some  ruther  bad  news.  I'm  'feared 
Uncle  Parkman  won't  help  ye  no  more,  'thout  yeou 
make  up  yeour  mind  ter  preach  the  gospel." 

"Why,  what's  started  him  in  that  direction  }'' 

"Ther'  was  a  'vangelist  come  along,  an'  got  a-hold  of 
him,  an'  told  him  thet  all  his  monev  b'lons^ed  ter  the 
Lord,  an'  thet  he  (uncle)  was  on'y  the  steward  ;  an'  thet 
ter  help  edicate  a  lawyer  or  doctor  was  wastin'  the  Lord's 
treasure.  The  end  on't  was,  he  made  uncle  promise 
thet  ef  you  didn't  'gree  to  preach,  the  money  should  go 
ter  him  (the  'v^angelist)  fer  some  young  man  he  knows." 

*'  As  well  as  he  knows  himself,  I  suppose.  Well, 
dear  mother,  don't  be  troubled  ;  I've  had  three  years  in 
college,  and  that  I  am  sure  of.  If  I  don't  get  any 
more,  I  must  try  to  do  the  best  with  the  education  I 
have.  W^e  won't  trouble  Uncle  Parkman.  But  I  say, 
mother,  where's  Susy  V 

"  Wal,  Herman,  30U  wasn't  to  know  abaout  it,  but 
I  s'posc  it  '11  hev  ter  come  aout.  She's  ben  over  to 
Burlin'ton." 

"In  Burlington  }     What  is  she  there  for  }  " 

"  Goin'  tu  school.  She  said  she  couldn't  abcar  to 
hev  the  edication  all  on  one  side  o'  the  haouse  ;  so  she 
went  over  ther'  jest  arter  you  went  away.  She  has 
come  home  now  an'  then,  but  she's  ben  tu  school  most 
a  year." 

"  And  when  is  she  comincr  home  .-* " 


236  QUABBIN' 

"  The  school  was  shct  abaout  a  month  ago,  but  she 
wanted  to  stay  a  Icctle  longer  fer  her  music  ;  an'  this 
last  month  she's  ben  doin'  nothin'  but  play  the  pianner. 
Her  mother's  to  git  one  fer  her." 

"Mrs.  Gilbert  buying  a  piano  for  Susy!  why,  it's 
fairly  snowing  and  hailing  wonders  !  But  you  don't 
say  when  she  is  coming." 

"No;  wal,  it's  naow  'baout  five  o'clock,  an'  I  sh'd 
think  yeour  father  'd  naterally  git  here  by  six." 

"  And  father  has  gone  for  her .''" 

"  Yis,  with  Mis'  Gilbert's  wag'n,  foraourn  ain't  a  very 
good-goin'  concern." 

That  was  the  longest  hour  Herman  Field  ever  spent. 
He  almost  counted  the. minutes. 

At  length  the  wagon-wheels  were  heard ;  and  he 
rushed  out  of  the  house,  hatless,  and  met  the  party  on 
the  green  plat  in  front.  There  was  a  quick  "Hullo, 
dad  !"  and  then  Susy  was  helped,  or  rather  lifted,  out. 
The  greeting  for  the  "  dad  "  would  keep.  He  held  the 
rather  frightened  girl  in  his  arms,  she  wondering  at  his 
impetuosity,  and  gave  her  uncounted  kisses.  Then  he 
held  her  at  arm's  length,  and  looked  at  her.  Then  he 
took  her  again  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her. 

"  I'm  fairly  'shamed  o'  yeou,  Herman,"  said  his 
mother.  "  Du  let  the  gal  git  her  breath.  Yeou  tumble 
her  abaout  jest  's  ef  she  was  a  cosset  lamb." 

"  Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,"  thought 
Susy,  as  she  shook  herself  free  from  her  lover's  bois- 
terous caresses.  Evidently  he  had  not  been  flirting 
with  girls  down  in  Massachusetts,  but  had  kept  her 
image  always  bright  in  his  heart. 

The  end  of  this  little  romance  is  reached.  Susy  Gil- 
bert   had   grown    up    to    be   one  of   the  brightest  and 


MIGHT  HAVE  BEEN  A   ROMANCE  237 

sweetest  of  women,  even  in  silent  comparison  with  a 
nameless  person  in  Quabbin  ;  and  she  had  developed 
tastes  and  aptitudes  which  were  to  make  her  the  com- 
panion and  the  pride  of  an  educated  man.  She  had 
been  under  refining  influences  at  Burlington  ;  and  she 
was  to  return  for  six  months  or  a  year  to  continue  her 
studies. 

Field  taught  the  district  school  for  the  ensuing  win- 
ter, and  later,  having  a  solid  knowledge  of  mathematics, 
fitted  himself  to  become  a  civil  engineer.  Uncle  Park- 
man's  money  went  off  by  the  hands  of  the  evangelist  ; 
also  various  earrings,  brooches,  and  finger-rings,  con- 
tributed in  a  moment  of  religious  frenzy  by  admirers  at 
a  farewell  meeting.  Mrs.  Field  said  of  the  evangelist, 
that  "she  didn't  know  rightly  about  his  convarting  sin- 
ners so's  ter  hev  'em  stay  convarted,  but  he  was  a 
master  hand  for  preachin'  jewlry  off'm  saints," 

Field  continued  his  membership  in  the  church,  but 
never  regretted  the  choice  he  had  made  of  a  profession, 
nor  his  hurried  departure  from  Quabbin. 


238  QUABBIN 


CHAPTER    XXIV 

THE    CIDER-MILL 

Abijah  Crombie's  cidcr-mill  was  somewhat  off  the 
main  road,  upon  a  bank  that  sloped  toward  the  river. 
The  outlook  from  the  front  of  the  mill  in  early  autumn 
was  delightful  to  those  who  can  see  beauty  in  simple 
things.  There  was  a  broad  meadow  with  natural  ine- 
qualities, never  tormented  by  cultivation,  covered  with 
a  second  growth  of  thick,  dark  grass,  flecked  with  white 
and  golden  blossoms,  and  dotted  with  tall  plants  resem- 
bling spirea,  but  classed  ignominioasly  with  ''weeds." 
Along  the  farther  margin  was  the  familiar  ragged 
fringe  of  alders,  through  which  was  seen  at  intervals 
the  shining  blue-black  surface  of  the  river,  placid  at 
this  point,  and  lazily  moving  in  dim  wrinkles  and  swirls. 
So  inky  was  the  water  one  could  hardly  imagine  it  to 
be  the  same  stream  which  whitened  over  the  dam,  and 
played  with  the  brown  and  yellow  stones  in  the  rapids 
near  the  village. 

The  narrow  lane  which  passed  the  cider-mill  led 
down  to  a  wooden  bridge  that  spanned  the  river,  — 
a  skeleton  bridge  made  by  some  carpenter  unskilled  in 
geometry,  a  bridge  which  confounded  lines,  whether 
parallels  or  perpendiculars,  and  which  appeared  to  have 
crouched  on  all  fours,  so  as  to  let  the  cattle  cross  on  its 
back  to  the  hill  pastures  opposite,  on  the  side  of  Great 
Ouabbin. 


THE  CIDER-MILL  239 

The  lane  was  bordered  by  zigzag  fences,  in  the  cor- 
ners of  which  were  brambles,  plumes  of  golden-rod, 
pink  spikes  of  hardback,  burdocks,  with  leaves  like 
elephant's  ears,  and  all  sorts  of  useless  luxuriance. 
Leaves  were  beginning  to  fall,  and  the  lane  seemed  to 
have  been  carpeted  with  stuffs  from  Persian  looms  for 
the  cows  to  walk  over. 

On  account  of  its  situation  upon  the  slope,  the  mill 
had  two  stories  in  front,  and  one  in  the  rear.  Carts  were 
driven  in  from  the  lane  to  unload  apples  at  the  upper 
level,  and  then  taken  around  to  receive  barrels  of 
cider  at  the  lower.  The  mill  might  have  been  called 
a  shed  without  hurting  anybody's  feelings.  Many  of 
the  sheathing  boards  and  shingles  were  split,  or  warped, 
or  loose  ;  and  little  of  a  burglar's  art  would  have  been 
required  to  open  the  rickety  doors,  fastened  by  wooden 
latches  and  pins.  The  building  had  never  been  painted, 
and  its  rough  sides  had  the  tone  of  soft  gray,  which  is 
so  pleasing  in  pictures,  and  so  melancholy  in  fact. 

The  upper  story  was  a  receptacle  for  apples,  from 
whence  they  were  poured  through  an  inclining  trough 
into  the  grinding-mill  below.  The  visitor  who  entered 
upon  the  lower  level  saw  a  pair  of  upright  wooden 
cylinders,  placed  near  together,  and  revolving  in  oppo- 
site directions,  so  as  to  crush  the  apples  drawn  in  be- 
tween them.  Teeth  upon  one  cylinder  fitted  into  holes 
in  the  other,  to  facilitate  the  crushing.  The  power 
was  supplied  by  a  horse  travelling  in  a  small  circle, 
and  moving  the  lever  which  turned  the  motor-wheel. 
The  machinery  was  of  the  rudest  sort,  wholly  of  wood, 
but  easily  managed,  and  efficient.  Tlic  pomace  fell 
into  a  large  shallow  vat  (presumably  clean),  and  was 
scooped  out  by  wooden  shovels  when  a  form  was  made 


240  QUABBIN 

up  to  be  pressed.  The  form  was  simply  arranged.  A 
sheaf  of  clean  straw  was  spread  out  evenly  upon  a 
platform,  which  was  grooved  with  channels,  and  placed 
directly  beneath  a  large  perpendicular  screw  depending 
from  a  solid  frame.  Upon  the  layer  of  straw  the 
pomace  was  spread  like  a  boy's  jam  ;  that  is  to  say, 
considerably  more  jam  than  bread.  Then  a  second 
even  layer  was  spread  at  light  angles  to  the  first  ;  then 
more  pomace  and  more  straw,  until  the  pile  reached  a 
height  of  two  or  three  feet.  A  coping  board  was 
placed  upon  the  top,  and  blocks  were  laid  upon  it. 
Then  the  great  screw  was  turned  with  long  wooden 
levers,  and  brought  down  upon  the  blocks,  very  gently 
at  first,  so  that  the  pile  might  retain  its  consistency, 
then  harder,  until  the  last  drops  of  juice  had  trickled 
out. 

If  the  apples  were  carefully  picked  over,  excluding 
those  that  were  rotten  or  wormy  ;  if  all  parts  of  the 
mill,  including  cylinders,  channels,  vats,  shovels,  and 
straw,  were  scrupulously  clean  ;  and  if  the  barrels  were 
well-seasoned  and  sweet,  the  cider  was  certain  to  be 
pure  and  palatable.     There  were  many  ifs. 

Two  boys,  twelve  and  fourteen  years  of  age  respect- 
ively, who  had  been  fishing  at  the  bridge,  and  were 
carrying  home  a  pickerel  and  a  horn  pout,  lingered  at 
the  mill  to  get  a  sip  of  the  cider,  and  to  watch  the  oper- 
ations. All  boys  were  delighted  to  suck  the  running 
juice  with  straws.  They  were  not  too  dainty  as  to  the 
cleanliness  of  the  process,  nor  could  they  often  be 
deterred  by  mischievous  suggestions  as  to  the  flavor  of 
wormy  fruit.  Of  course  the  fluid  was  not  intoxicating, 
but  when  taken  too  freely  it  was  apt  to  work  them  woe. 

Mr.   Crombie's  hired   man,   known  to  everybody  by 


THE  CIDER-MILL.  24 1 

the  name  of  Dick,  was  turning  the  screw  by  means  of 
a  stout  hickory  lever  ;  and  his  puffy  good-humored  face, 
of  a  uniform  pink,  was  overspread  with  a  gently  oozing 
perspiration.  He  knew  the  boys  well,  and  their  rela- 
tions with  him  were  of  the  most  friendly  sort. 

*'  I  thank  you  very  much  for  the  neck-ribbon,"  said 
the  elder  boy  to  Dick  ;  "  I  wore  it  at  the  examination, 
and  I  shall  keep  it  for  Sundays." 

'''Twan't  nothinV' said  Dick,  "but  you  know  I  alius 
liked  yeour  father,  an'  I  wanted  yeou  ter  look  ez 
smart's  any  o'  the  boys.  A  bit  o'  black  ribbin  don't 
cost  much,  an'  I  hev  it  in  my  heart  ter  du  a  good  deal 
more  fer  ye,  ef  I  could.  Jes'  be  easy  on  the  cider, 
'Ratio,"  addressing  the  younger  lad.  "Mr.  Crombie 
don't  mind  the  vally  on't,  ef  he  is  close,  but  I  don't 
wanter  see  ye  doubled  up,  ez  ef  ye  was  a  worm  on  a 
fishhook.  Don't  take  no  more'n  six  or  eight  leetle 
sucks,  an'  then  wait  a  spell,  so's  ter  see  ef  it  ain't  goin' 
to  give  yeour  innards  a  twist." 

"  Why  does  the  minister  say  folks  oughtn't  to  drink 
cider  .'^  "  asked  Horatio.  "It  doesn't  make  boys  cross, 
nor  their  noses  red." 

"Boys  drink  it  sweet,  afore  it's  worked,"  answered 
Dick.  "Yeou  boys  may  git  a  stummick-ache,  but,  till 
the  cider's  worked,  it  hain't  no  stingo." 

"What's  '  stingo  '  .?  " 

"  Stingo's  sperrit  ;  sunthin'  like  rum.  Arter  cider 
gits  old  an'  hard,  it  makes  folks  drunk,  an'  it  makes 
'em  bad-tempered  tu." 

"  How  does  apple-juice  get  spirit  in  it  .^  "  asked  Eli, 
the  elder  boy. 

"  Jes'  by  fermentin'  ;  it's  changed  somehaow." 

"  Couldn't  the  fermenting  be  stopped  }  " 


242  QUABBIN 

**  Not  altogether ;  but  ef  ye  put  a  pint  o'  mustard 
seed  in  the  barril,  an'  liang  in  the  buni;--hole  a  string 
'ith  bits  o'  isinglass,  an'  then  bung  it  up  tight,  'twill  be 
clear  in  twenty  or  thirty  days,  an'  'twon't  hev  tu  much 
stingo.  But,  Eli,"  continued  Dick,  ''don't  yeou  never 
drink  no  hard  cider,  nor  nuthin'  thet  hez  sperrit  in't. 
Take  warnin'  from  me.  I  was  'counted  a  smart  boy, 
an'  I  might  'a'  been  a  smart  man,  an'  hed  a  fam'ly  o' 
my  own.  An'  yeou  see  what  I  am  naow.  Everybody 
calls  me  Dick  the  drunkard.  Don't  yeou  never  du's 
I've  done." 

Eli  was  touched  by  this  sudden  outburst,  and  asked 
sympathetically,  "  Couldn't  you  leave  off  1  You  are 
not  old,  and  you  might  have  a  chance  yet." 

Dick  mournfully  shook  his  head,  and  wiped  his  eves 
with  his  shirt  sleeve.  ''  No,  'tain't  no  use,"  he  said  ; 
'*  I  can't  du  it.  I've  tried  often  'nough.  I  alius  say 
arter  I've  hed  a  spree,  thet  it's  the  last  one  ;  but  when 
I'm  well  over  it  the  thirst  comes,  an'  I  can't  stan'  it. 
Folks  think  I've  got  no  feelin's,  but  /know.  I  see  ye, 
Eli,  when  I  was  ter  the  butcher's  t'other  day,  and  the 
boys  hed  put  my  heel  in  the  hook  o'  the  iron  chain, 
and  then  wanted  ter  turn  the  windlass  so's  to  pull  me 
up  like  a  dead  critter,  'ith  my  hed  hangin'  daown  ;  I 
see  ye,  Eli,  an'  yeou  wouldn't  let  'em  pull  me  up,  an' 
yeou  made  'em  leave  me  'lone  in  the  chair  till  I  hed  my 
sleep.  I  see  ye,  an'  I  hain't  forgot  it,  an'  never  shell. 
But  don't  du  ez  I've  done.  Tell  your  pa  what  I've  told 
ye.  HcW  know  why  I  take  some  int'rest  an'  pride  in 
his  boys." 

Dick  went  on  with  his  work,  shovelling  out  pomace, 
building  it  up  in  square  heaps  with  layers  of  straw,  and 
turning  the  screw  with  brawny  arms.     But   he   said  no 


THE   CIDER-MILL.  243 

more.     He  looked   unutterable  things,   and   wiped   his 
red  eyes. 

The  two  boys  took  their  fish  and  poles  and  left  him. 
They  stopped  at  the  rear  of  the  mill  where  many  heaps 
of  apples  lay  on  the  grass,  and  then  looked  in  at  the 
upper  story  to  see  Mr.  Crombie  put  apples  in  the 
trough  that  led  down  to  the  works. 

'' Lemme  see,"  said  Mr.  Crombie,  '^yeou're  Eli  an' 
'Ratio,  the  carpenter's  boys,  ain't  ye.-*  Air  ye  goin' 
ter  skule  .'*  " 

Eli  answered  that  they  had  been  attending  Mr. 
Field's  select  school,  but  that  the  term  was  just  over. 

"  Yeou  talk  pooty  wal ;  what  hev  yeou  ben  a 
study  in'  t  " 

"Arithmetic,  geography,  and  Latin  grammar." 

"  Yeou've  ben  a-studyin'  Latin }  What  air  yeou 
'xpectin'  ter  du  or  ter  be  } " 

"  I  don't  know.     I  mean  to  learn  all  I  can." 

"Wal,  it's  curus  what  notions  boys  takes.  Ef 
yeou're  a  good  boy,  yeou '11  help  yeour  father  when 
yeou're  big  enough  ;  an'  ef  yeou  du,  yeou  won't  have 
any  yeuse  fer  Latin.  But  I  don't  want  ter  discoura^-e 
any  boy  :  I  hain't  hed  any  larnin',  an'  'sted  o'  studvin' 
books,  I  mostly  study  human  nater,  —  an'  here  ez  wal 
ez  anywhere.  Li  any  o'  them  piles  of  apples  I  kin  see 
the  nater  o'  the  man  thet  raised  'em,  an'  o'  his  father 
thet  set  aout  the  trees.  This  one  is  shif'less  an'  poor; 
thet  one  is  forehanded  an'  stiddy.  This  one  goes  ter 
meetin'  an'  fears  God  ;  thet  one  is  wicked  or  keerless." 

"  And  do  vou  know,  then,  whose  thcv  all  are  }  " 

"Oh,  yis  ;  I  could  a'most  tell  'em  by  feelin'  on  'em 
'ith  my  eyes  shet."  He  went  on,  "Thet  air  ]:)ilo,  ye 
see,  is  full  o'  leaves  an'  bits   o'   leetle   sticks.      An'   vc 


244  QUABBIN 

see  the  apples  is  bruised.  Them  hev  ben  knocked  off 
the  trees  by  pesky  lazy  boys,  an'  raked  up,  leaves  an' 
all  ;  'stid  o'  shakin'  'em  off  properly,  an'  pickin'  up  one 
ter  time.  They  air  Josh  Aldrich's  apples.  That's  the 
way  he  an'  his  boys  du.  Them  red-streaks  is  Newman's. 
They're  soft,  an'  orter  a  ben  picked  keerful.  They  air 
part  bruised  an'  part  rotten.  Folks  says  rotten  apples 
make  good  cider,  but  'tain't  so ;  the  rotten  taste  goes 
clean  thru  it. 

''Them  leetle  gnurly  ones  'ith  o'ny  one  cheek  air 
Sherman's.  'Pears  like  they're  goin'  back  ter  wild 
apples.  The  trees  air  old,  an'  air  run  ter  shoots  an' 
suckers.  They  air  tu  fer  gone  ever  to  bear  anythin' 
decent.  But  though  them  leetle,  one-sided  apples  air 
sour  'nough  to  make  a  pig  squeal,  I'd  ruther  hev  'em 
for  cider  than  better  apples  thet  is  part  rotten. 

''Them  green  pippins  ther'  is  Chandler's.  He's  hed 
all  his  trees  grafted.  They're  good,  but  I  shouldn't 
fancy  hevin'  all  one  kind. 

"Thet  pooty  pile  layin'  on  a  blanket  is  the  Widder 
Howson's.  She's  nice,  she  is,  an'  won't  hev  no  cider 
thet  ain't  ez  clean  ez  a  cup  of  her  own  tea.  Them 
apples  is  all  picked  over  an'  washed  an'  wiped.  Ef  she 
was  goin'  to  make  a  pie  or  a  puddin',  she  wouldn't  a' 
taken  more  pains.  When  she  gits  her  cider  she  knows 
what  she's  drinkin'. 

"  An'  look  at  thet  mons'ous  big  pile,  all  sorts,  yal- 
ler,  green,  an'  red.  Them  b'longs  ter  Lijah  Hanks. 
He'll  hev  ten  or  fifteen  barrils." 

"  P'r'aps  he'll  sell  some,"  suggested  the  boy. 

"  Not  he.  It  takes  a  lot  o'  cider  to  last  him,  even  ef 
he  doos  put  red  pepper  in't." 

"  You  said  that    the    trees  which   bore    those    little 


THE   CIDER-MILL  245 

apples  were  top  far  gone  to  be  good  for  anything ;  now, 
if  the  man  that  raised  them  should  be  a  steady  man 
and  go  to  the  meeting,  would  his  apples  be  any  better?  " 

*'  Not  till  he  hed  better  trees.  But  cf  he  was  the 
right  kind  o'  man  all  thru,  he'd  either  hcv  new  trees, 
or  graff  the  old  ones,  or  sunthiii ^ 

"  Do  you  charge  so  much  a  barrel  for  making  cider 
of  people's  apples  ?  "  asked  Eli,  ''  or  do  you  exchange, 
taking  so  many  bushels  for  a  barrel  ? " 

''  Sometimes  one  way,  sometimes  t'other  ;  an'  some- 
times a  man  pays  me  so  much  a  day  for  the  use  o'  the 
mill.  Most  folks,  wlio  wanter  know  what  they're  goin' 
ter  git,  hev  their  own  apples  (which  they've  gathered 
an'  picked  over)  made  inter  cider,  arter  hevin'  the  mill 
washed." 

The  ingenuous  faces  of  the  boys  impressed  Mr. 
Crombie,  and  he  evidently  wished  to  efface  the  harsh- 
ness of  his  comment  upon  the  study  of  Latin.  ''  I  don't 
want  ve  ter  think  I'm  as:' in  larnin' ;  an'  thous^h  I  can't 
see  the  good  o'  Latin,  I'm  alius  glad  ter  see  boys  trvin' 
ter  be  well  eddicated,  an'  ter  raise  'emselves.  On'y, 
alius  remember  thet  the  fear  o'  the  Lord  is  the  begin- 
nin'  o'  wisdom  ;  an'  don't  ye  never  let  anythin'  come 
at  ween  yeou  an'  the  faith  o'  yeour  fathers." 

This  earnestness  touched  the  boy,  quite  as  much  as 
had  the  tender  words  of  poor  Dick.  He  had  not  real- 
ized how  the  hearts  of  right-minded  people  go  out  in 
sympathy  with  a  youth  who  aims  at  qualifying  himself 
for  some  honorable  career.  He  had  begun  to  see  a 
vista  opening  before  him,  and  looked  forward  to  be- 
coming a  disciple  of  the  great  and  wise.  The  influence 
of  Mr.  Field  had  been  stimulating  and  helpful.  He 
was  moved  by  vague  presentiments,  and  there   came   a 


246  QUABBIN 

sense  of  uplifting  by  some  power  not  his  own.  His 
outward  appearance  gave  little  indication  of  the  dreamy, 
soaring  mind.  His  face  was  striking  only  for  the  large 
and  lustrous  eyes,  and  for  the  shock  of  bushy  hair. 
His  clothes  were  poor,  and  evidently  often  mended, 
and  his  feet  were  bare.  He  was  healthy  and  solid,  but 
evidently  knew  nothing  of  the  requirements  of  the 
toilet,  nor  of  the  manners  of  society.  He  was  as  simple 
and  natural  as  a  savage. 

He  had  taken  the  first  step  in  a  road  that  was  to  lead 
him  far  from  the  life  of  Ouabbin.  Would  he  ever  for- 
get how  he  looked  in  his  patched  suit,  barefoot,  and 
dangling  a  couple  of  fish  ? 

"  Wait,  Horatio,"  he  said  to  his  brother.  "  Wait  a 
minute."  He  ran  quickly  to  the  lower  story  where 
Dick  was  at  work.  **  Dick,"  said  he  in  a  gentle  tone, 
"  if  you're  ever  in  want  of  anything,  come  to  our  house. 
Mother  '11  be  good  to  you  ;  and  you  needn't  think  that 
nobody  cares  for  you.  It  made  me  ache  to  hear  you 
talk.      There  are  some  who  care  for  you,  a  great  deal." 

He  did  not  wait  for  an  answer,  but  ran  back  to  join 
his  brother.  ''  I  wish  that  neck-ribbin  could  a'  ben 
made  o'  gold  an'  di'monds,"  thought  Dick. 


AN  EXIT  247 


CHAPTER    XXV 

AN    EXIT 

The  third  minister's  orbit  was  not  of  great  extent. 
His  period  near  the  sun  of  favor  was  short,  and  he 
soon  entered  upon  the  long  curve  which  led  through 
cold  and  gloom. 

People  began  to  wonder  what  they  had  admired  in 
him,  or  in  his  preaching.  No  one  was  willing  to  admit 
that  he  had  actively  favored  settling  him.  The  general 
expression  was,  ''  I  never  was,  myself ,  so  much  carried 
away  by  his  elerkence,  but  ez  everybody  else  seemed  ter 
be  pleased,  I  thought  'twas  my  dewty  to  jine  in."  We 
have  seen  what  were  the  deacons'  opinions.  Mr.  Grant 
did  not  say  much,  but  behind  his  gold  spectacles  there 
was  a  deal  of  thinking,  and  his  manner  to  the  minister 
was  seen  to  be  **  offish." 

Certain  young  fellows  learned  the  trick  of  pulpit 
rhetoric,  and  used  to  imitate  the  minister's  2:litterin2: 
sentences  and  high-pitched  voice.  He  was  discussed 
at  the  counting-room,  the  post-office,  the  stores,  and  the 
shoemaker's  shop.  The  talk  over  the  lapstone  was 
especially  damnatory,  llie  new  doctor  took  him  up, 
and  called  him  sophomorical  ;  and  as  people  did  not 
know  what  that  meant,  and  the  doctor  was  '*  a  college- 
larnt  man,"  it  was  supposed  to  be  something  very 
bad. 


24S  QUABB/N' 

No  one  could  say  that  the  formah'ties  of  duty  were 
not  observed.  The  sermons  were  of  ortliodox  length, 
apd  earnestly  delivered.  Fresh  texts  were  brought  out 
ever)'  Sunday  ;  but  after  a  few  sentences  the  discourse 
somehow  fell  into  old  ruts  of  thought,  and  observant 
hearers  soon  perceived  that  in  any  half-dozen  Sundays 
he  went  over  all  the  solid  parts  of  his  repertory. 

"  When  sh'U  we  hev  any  revivle  o'  religion  ? " 

"  When  'II  come  forrard  the  young  to  fill  aour 
places  ? " 

"When  '11  ther  be  a-movin'  'mong  the  dry  bones  o* 
the  church  ?  '* 

"  Ther's  sermons  thet's  all  glitter,  like  a  heap  of 
icicles." 

"  Ther's  talk  thet  hain't  any  life-givin'  paower  in't, 
more'n  a  Jinnuary  moon  'd  hev  on  a  growin'  punkin- 
vme. 

Such  were  the  current  comments  ;  but  most  people 
were  backward  when  a  movement  was  proposed.  Min- 
isters were  formerly  settled  for  life,  and  the  feeling  was 
still  strong  that  an  incumbent  had  rights  which  were 
sacred.  In  the  event  of  the  minister's  being  dismissed 
against  his  will,  it  was  felt  that  he  would  be  entitled  to 
compensation  which  might  burden  the  parish. 

One  day  the  whole  town  was  startled  by  the  report 
that  a  special  meeting  had  been  called  to  take  action  in 
regard  to  sundering  the  relation  between  the  parish  and 
the  minister.  In  the  village  there  was  a  general  sense 
of  relief  ;  but,  when  the  meeting  was  held,  it  was  found 
that  the  "  otherwise  minded  "  were  out  in  full  force,  and 
were  bent  on  mischief.  They  cared  nothing  for  the 
interests  of  religion  ;  their  only  motive  was  to  cross  the 
leaders  of  the  church  and  parish. 


AN  EXIT  249 

Deacon  Rawson  stated  the  case  for  the  church,  and 
was  discreet  enough  to  state  it  mildly,  and  without  any 
harsh  words  about  the  minister.  There  was  no  one 
among  the  dissentients  who  could  speak  with  any  effect, 
but  they  made  plenty  of  noise  in  interruptions,  and  were 
ready  to  vote  as  one  man.  They  seldom  came  to  meet- 
ing, and  their  contributions  counted  very  little  in  the 
parish  treasury. 

After  some  skirmishing,  Mr.  Grant  got  the  floor,  and, 
addressing  the  moderator,  said,  in  substance,  — 

"It  does  me  good  to  be  present  at  this  large  meeting 
of  the  parishioners  of  Ouabbin.  It  is  a  good  sign 
when  upon  a  matter  of  general  concern  there  is  such 
an  unusual  turn-out.  Our  friends  from  the  remote  parts 
of  the  town  have  left  their  farms  and  their  workshops, 
and  have  come  to  give  us  their  counsel  in  the  matter 
which  has  called  us  together.  I  am  glad  to  see  this 
wide-spread  interest,  especially  on  the  part  of  those  who 
come  in  all  weathers  to  meeting,  and  pay  so  liberally 
for  the  support  of  the  gospel.  You  all  know  who  they 
are.  Their  zeal  and  good  works  are  known  to  all  men. 
They  are  those  who  strongly  upheld  the  fearless  course 
of  our  former  minister.  Now,  if  they  were  laggards  in 
God's  service ;  if  they  remained  at  home,  or  ran  after 
new  lights,  or  helped  the  Methodists  ;  if  they  had  no 
heart  in  sustaining  this  church,  and  the  doctrines  and 
traditions  of  the  fathers  ;  if  they  were  loose  in  life,  or 
irreligious  at  heart,  we  should  consider  it  a  little  out  of 
place,  r.  little  indelicate  perhaps,  to  come  here  to  take 
part  in  a  matter  in  which  the\-  could  ha\-e  no  real  con- 
cern :  we  should  say  they  ought  to  leave  the  choice  of 
a  minister  to  those  who  habitually  go  to  hear  one.  and 
not  to  interfere,  for  motix'cs  which  it  would  be  improper 


250  QUABBIN 

for  me  to  state  In  plain  words.  But  as  they  are  known 
to  have  a  deep  interest  in  this  church,  we  shall  be  glad 
to  know  what  they  have  to  say  for  its  good."  (Mr. 
Grant  had  a  slight  Yankee  accent,  but  not  enough  to 
justify  a  change  in  spelling.) 

Said  the  moderator,  **  Is  the  gentleman  thru  .''  Sup- 
posin'  that  he  would  conclude  his  speech  with  a  motion 
he  was  'lowed  to  go  on.  Ez  he  didn't  make  one,  he 
was  aout  of  order.  There  is  no  motion  afore  the 
meetin'." 

Deacon  Rawson  then  moved  to  pass  the  resolution 
embodied  in  the  call  for  the  meeting. 

The  ironical  gibes  of  Mr.  Grant  had  only  the  usual 
effect,  namely,  to  harden  the  temper  of  the  opposition  ; 
but  none  of  the  party  could  make  an  effective  reply,  and 
they  took  their  punishment  in  silence. 

One  speaker  favored  the  minister  because  he  did  not 
read  written  sermons;  he  had  no  patience  with  "eler- 
kence  studied  out  aforehand."  He  thought  that  when 
a  preacher's  mouth  was  opened,  he  would  be  told  by  the 
Holy  Ghost  what  to  say. 

Deacon  Dodge  asked  the  last  speaker  if  he  thought 
the  days  of  miracles  would  come  back.  If  so,  they 
might  look  for  the  gift  of  tongues,  the  healing  of  the 
sick,  and  the  raising  of  the  dead  ;  as  none  of  those 
things  were  more  supernatural  than  the  power  of 
preaching  without  study. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Grant  and  a  friend  had  made  a  count, 
and  had  satisfied  themselves  that,  in  spite  of  the  noisy 
demonstration  at  the  back  of  tlie  hall,  the  meeting  was 
controlled  by  the  friends  of  the  church. 

Having  allowed  ample  time  for  all  to  express  their 
views,  Deacon  Rawson  moved  that  the  main  question 


AN  EXIT  251 

be  now  put,  which  was  carried.  The  moderator  then 
stated  the  question,  which  was  to  the  effect  that  the 
parish  officers  be  authorized  and  directed  to  confer  with 
the  church  and  with  the  minister,  witli  the  view  of 
bringing  about  an  amicable  separation  ;  and  he  added, 
*'  This  meetin'  hez  ordered  thet  the  main  question  be 
naow  put,  and  this  isn't  open  ter  'mendment  ner  debate. 
The  thing  is  to  vote  yea  or  nay  on  this  ere  resolution. 
Ef  the  yeas  hev  it,  ther's  an  end  of  the  business.  Ef 
the  nays  hev  it,  then  the  way  is  open  ter  perpose  sun- 
thin'  else." 

The  yeas  were  called  for,  and  the  hands  were  eagerly 
counted  ;  then  the  otherwise  minded  made  their  show, 
and  were  clearly  in  the  minority. 

The  church  was  almost  unanimous  for  the  change. 
At  the  conference,  the  minister  said  that  the  proposal 
was  an  injury  to  his  reputation  and  to  his  feelings  ;  that 
he  had  hoped  and  expected  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  days  among  brethren  who  had  received  him  so 
warmly,  and  whom  he  still  loved.  He  enlarged  upon 
his  success  in  preaching,  and  hinted  at  the  lustre 
thereby  reflected  upon  the  church  ;  and  he  wished  to 
know  in  what  he  had  come  short  of  any  just  ex- 
pectation .<* 

Deacon  Rawson,  speaking  for  the  church,  declined 
to  be  drawn  into  a  discussion,  which  was  sure  to  be 
unpleasant,  and  could  serve  no  good  purpose,  and  said 
the  case  for  the  church  and  parish  would  be  laid  before 
the  ecclesiastical  council. 

Certain  churches  wbre  thereupon  invited  to  send 
each  its  pastor  and  a  lay  delegate  on  a  day  named. 
When  the  council  assembled,  the  minister  asked  to  be 
represented   by  a  brothci    in   the   Lord,  the   Rev.  Dr. 


252  QUADBIN 

Windust,  who  had  come  a  long  distance  for  the  purpos^^ 
of  stating  his  case. 

It  was  a  very  unusual  proceeding,  and  was  unfair,  as 
the  church  and  parish  had  no  counsel ;  but  the  great 
name  of  the  reverend  doctor  overawed  the  simple- 
minded  brothers.  Within  an  hour  Deacon  Rawson 
saw  how  matters  were  going,  and  whispered  to  Deacon 
Holyoke,  *'  We  hedn't  orter  let  him  in.  He's  a-goin' 
to  twist  the  caouncil  'baout  his  leetle  fino^er.  He's  cfoin' 
in  for  big  damigcs,  and  poor  ol'  Ouabbin  'U  hcv  to 
sweat." 

It  was  even  so.  The  doctor  of  divinity  had  a  con- 
summate knowledge  of  the  world,  plenty  of  "  cheek," 
and  talent  for  pushing  ;  and  he  shoved  this  way  and 
that  among  the  innocent  people  he  had  to  deal  with, 
until  he  became  as  supreme  as  the  Pope. 

It  was  admitted  on  both  sides  that  the  minister  raust 
go,  since  the  breach  was  irreparable ;  the  only  question 
was  as  to  compensation.  On  this  point  the  "  brother 
in  the  Lord  "  developed  as  much  ingenuity  and  force 
as  would  have  done  credit  to  a  leader  of  the  metropoli- 
tan bar.  He  flattered  the  ministers,  and  put  to  them 
the  arguuicntiim  ad  Jiomincm :  —  as  much  as  to  say, 
"  How  would  you  like  it  yourselves  .-^  "  He  smoothed 
the  lay  delegates  as  if  they  had  been  tabbies.  He 
poked  fun  at  the  deacons  of  Ouabbin,  and  stigmatized 
that  poor  village  as  purse-proud  and  pretentious.  And 
when  he  came  to  tell  the  minister's  story,  that  gentle- 
man drew  out  a  great  silk  handkerchief,  blew  his  nose, 
and  wept.  I'he  reverend  orator  went  on,  momently 
scaling  new  rhetorical  heights,  and  likened  his  friend 
and  client  to  Cicero,  Massillon,  Jeremy  Taylor,  White- 
field,  and  other  celebrities.     He  talked  long  and  well, 


AA^  EXIT  253 

but  his  matter  was  nearly  exhausted,  when,  upon  a 
nudge  and  a  whisper  from  his  heart-broken  client,  he 
made  a  fresh  start.  He  began  to  tell  the  council  of 
the  minister's  wonderful  outbursts  of  eloquence,  and 
said  it  would  be  with  sincere  diffidence  that  he  should 
repeat  even  a  sentence,  as  it  might  be  spoiled  from 
want  of  memory  or  skill  on  the  part  of  the  humble 
narrator ;  but  he  would  try.  And  he  did  try.  On 
account  of  its  novelty  the  passage  is  herewith  trans- 
cribed.^ 

*'The  future  glories  of  Christianity  and  the  high  des- 
tinies of  the  human  race  appeal  with  gigantic  power  to 
the  hearts  of  all  enthusiastic  disciples.  With  prophetic 
eve  I  see  the  lono-  o'enerations  of  men  of  all  nations 
winding  over  Syrian  sands  on  their  pilgrimage  to  the 
haunts  in  Palestine  that  were  hallowed  by  the  feet  of 
the  Son  of  man.  The  lonsr  strife  with  sin  and  evil  is 
coming  finally  to  an  end.  Pope  and  patriarch  throw 
down  their  tiaras,  cardinals  strip  off  the  scarlet  livery 
of  the  mistress  of  the  seven  hills.  The  Chinese  re- 
nounce Confucius.  The  Indian  hermit  arises  from  the 
life-long  contemplation  of  the  mystery  of  existence  as 
shown  in  his  ovvn  umbilical  excision. 

"The  Polynesian  abstains  from  human  flesh,  and 
breaks  bread  under  a  missionary's  roof.  The  crescents 
of  thousands  of  mosques  are  made  into  sickles  to  reap 
the  harvests  of  the  world  ;  while  sultans  emancipate 
the  inmates  of  their  seraglios.  Then,  when  the  gospel- 
car  has  rolled  triumphantly  through  every  land  ;  when 

i  The  transcriber  obviously  shows  some  disposition  to  burlesque;  but  though 
some  passages  of  the  speech  may  have  been  tampered  with,  there  will  be  no  doubt 
of  the  genuineness  of  the  conclusion. 


254  QUABBIN 

every  ship  carries  a  white  flag  at  her  mast-head,  and  a 
Sunday-school  in  her  forecastle  ;  when  the  Esquimaux 
shall  have  set  up  chapels,  and  raised  the  gospel  banner 
at  the  North  Tolc,  —  then,  my  brethren,  perhaps  you 
suppose  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  Christians  to  do  ! 
Far  from  that !  The  fiery  zeal  of  the  faithful  must 
then  have  some  other  outlet  ;  and  they  will  even  try 
to  build  a  railroad  to  the  fixed  stars,  so  as  to  carry  to 
the  remotest  bounds  of  the  universe  the  glad  news  of 
salvation." 

*'  Was  not  that  a  sublime  conception  ? "  demanded 
the  reverend  orator.  Here  Deacon  Rawson  tried  to 
say  that  the  people  of  Ouabbin  had  heard  about  noth- 
ing else  but  that  railroad  for  some  years  ;  but  he  was 
no  match  for  the  pertinacious  brother  in  the  Lord,  and 
could  not  get  in  a  word  edgewise. 

Doctor  Windust  concluded  by  suggesting  that  the 
damages  be  fixed  at  five  thousand  dollars.  The  minis- 
ter was  still  weeping,  or  at  least  his  face  was  covered 
by  his  ample  handkerchief. 

Deacon  Rawson  said  the  sum  named  was  monstrous  ; 
that  ''the  perrish  couldn't  raise  no  sech  pile  o'  money;" 
that  they  "couldn't  squeeze  blood  aout  of  a  turnip." 
He  and  his  colleague  were  very  earnest,  and  showed  by 
the  tax-lists  that  the  payment  of  even  half  that  sum 
would  make  it  difficult  to  maintain  the  regular  preach- 
ing for  the  next  two  years. 

The  parties  retired,  and  the  council  deliberated. 
When  the  doors  were  opened  it  was  announced  that  the 
council  recommended  the  dissolution  of  the  pastoral 
relation,  and  that  the  minister  should  have  a  solatium 
of  three  thousand  dollars. 


AN  EXIT  255 

Then  was  seen  an  affecting  tableaii  in  two  parts. 
I.  The  minister  and  the  Rev.  Doctor  embracino;  with 
ears  of  joy.  II.  Deacon  Rawson  and  his  colleague 
with  countenances  expressive  of  disgust. 

Said  the  deacon,  "  I  s'pose  we  sh'll  hev  to  du  it.  We 
kin  borrer  the  money,  an'  p'r'aps  we  kin  pay  it  up  in 
four  or  five  year." 

And  so  disappeared  the  third  minister. 


256  QUABBIN 


CHAPTER    XXVI 

ROBERT    IV 

The  fourth  minister  was  one  to  whom  in  after  times 
all  goodness  and  graciousness  were  ascribed.  To  those 
who  best  knew  him  he  was  almost  an  ideal  pastor,  yet, 
like  many  a  blessing,  he  appeared  more  lustrous  in  the 
after-glow  of  memory.  The  wonder  was  how  a  man  of 
such  ability,  learning,  and  character  contented  himself 
with  the  prosaic  society  and  often  thankless  labor  that 
awaited  a  minister  in  Ouabbin.  It  must  have  been  a 
high  sense  of  duty  that  led  and  kept  him  there;  for  he 
was  the  equal  in  intellectual  force  of  the  foremost 
orthodox  preachers  of  his  time. 

He  was  born  in  New  England,  the  son  of  a  Scotch 
clergyman.  His  accent  was  purely  English;  his  unas- 
suming manners  were  those  of  the  best  society  ;  while 
his  firm  character,  no  less  than  his  name,  recalled  his 
origin.  His  countenance  and  voice  were  impressive, 
although  a  careful  description  would  not  require  any 
unusual  adjectives  ;  for  what  was  striking  and  memora- 
ble in  him  was  the  vague  something  which  eludes  de- 
scription. He  was  rather  alcove  medium  height,  solid 
but  spare  in  figure,  witli  a  large  and  finely  modelled 
head;  regular  features,  a  dull  yellowish  (but  not  un- 
wholesome) complexion,  and  steady  gray  eyes.  The 
shirt   collars   of   that    time    were   high   and  projecting, 


ROBERT  IV  257 

and  his  broad  and  bluish  chin  was  sunk  between,  two 
curving  supports  of  starched  linen,  while  the  soft  wdiite 
neckcloth  below  was  a  mass  of  wrinkled  folds. 

But  when  he  spoke  he  touched  a  sensor ium  behind 
the  organs  of  hearing,  and  then  no  one  thought  of  the 
high-curving  collar-points,  the  much-swathed  neck,  or 
the  pale,  lemon-tinted  skin.  For  there  was  something 
in  his  penetrating  yet  kindly  look,  and  in  the  rich  tones 
of  his  voice,  which  awakened  instant  attention,  and 
won  the  homage  of  every  auditor.  At  certain  times 
his  face  became  more  than  beautiful, — since  beauty, 
power,  and  tenderness  were  mingled, — drawing  the 
hearts  of  hearers  in  sympathy,  while  at  the  same  time 
reason  and  conscience  felt  the  imperious  summons  to 
surrender. 

Such  effects  of  soul  in  the  human  countenance  recall 
the  pictures  of  legendary  saints,  wherein  the  attempts 
of  the  masters  to  portray  a  spiritual  illumination  have 
led  to  preternatural  high  lights  and  emblematic  haloes. 
No  one  in  after  years  ever  thought  of  that  man  in  the 
pulpit,  with  the  deep  crimson  drapery  behind  him, 
except  with  a  beam  of  light  touching  his  noble  fore- 
head, and  his  features  eloquent  with  divine  love. 

The  sermons  of  the  good  Robert  IV.  were  direct 
and  practical.  Necessarily  they  were  doctrinal,  for  he 
was  wholly  a  Calvin ist  ;  but  the  doctrine  was  the  spirit 
of  the  sermons,  and  seldom  their  subject.  They  were 
never  rhetorical,  in  the  sinister  sense  of  the  word,  but 
in  stvlc  they  were  without  fault  ;  for  the  minister  was 
a  scholar,  and  wrote  with  a  purit\-  and  ease  that  had 
become  instinctive.  There  was  manv  a  fine  touch  for 
an  educated  ear,  but  in  substance  there  was  nothing 
above    the    ordinary    comprehension.      All     classes     of 


258  QUABBm 

hearers  were  reached,  yet  very  few  knew  to  what  per- 
fect English  they  were  listening.  But  as  few  people 
anywhere  know  the  rarity  of  pure,  fresh,  and  idiomatic 
style,  the  imperfect  perception  of  the  dwellers  in  Ouab- 
bin  is  not  a  matter  of  serious  reproach. 

The  minister  was  learned  in  theology,  as  far  as  con- 
cerned the  affirmation  and  defence  of  the  doirmas  he 
held  ;  but  neither  he  nor  any  man  of  his  order  had,  up 
to  that  time,  made  any  serious  study  of  doubts  or 
denials.  The  usual  way  was  to  set  up  an  imaginary 
adversary  on  an  impossible  basis,  and  then  easily  bowl 
him  down.  Modern  inquiry  had  scarcely  begun  upon 
the  character  and  history  of  the  sacred  books  ;  and  the 
plenary  inspiration  of  Scripture  in  every  chapter  and 
verse  was  never  questioned.  Nor  was  ''the  endless 
punishment  of  the  finally  impenitent  "  ever  doubted, 
except  by  Universalists,  Unitarians,  and  other  infidels. 
The  upheaval  of  conscience  in  the  Orthodox  Church 
against  that  terrible  doctrine  had  not  then  begun  ;  so 
that,  although  the  minister  seldom  ventured  to  draw 
those  baleful  pictures  of  the  wrath  of  God  with  which 
Jonathan  Edwards  shocked  the  Connecticut  Valley,  yet 
in  every  discourse  and  prayer,  the  ''fearful  looking-for 
of  judgment  and  fiery  indignation  "  was  the  thing  un- 
derstood as  being  the  background  and  alternative.  He 
aimed  to  j^ersuade,  and  to  lead  by  tender  appeals  ;  but 
every  soul  knew  that  the  "  terrors  "  lurked  behind  like 
menacing  spectres. 

He  had  been  distinguished  in  scholarship  while  at 
college,  and  afterward  as  an  instructor  ;  but  it  may  be 
doubted  whether  he  esteemed  classical  studies  and 
English  literature  as  more  tlian  means  of  mental  train- 
ing  and    temporary    recreation.     If    he    had    felt    the 


ROBERT  IV  259 

abounding  joy  which  fills  the  heart  of  an  earnest  and 
accomplished  scholar,  something  of  it  should  have 
overflowed ;  and  there  were  youths  hungering  for 
knowledge,  who  followed  all  his  utterances.  As,  in 
the  feeling  of  the  time,  the  whole  of  this  mortal  life 
was  none  too  long  as  a  preparation  for  an  endless 
future  existence,  all  studies  and  recreations  which  had 
no  bearing  upon  *'  the  one  thing  needful "  were  lightly 
regarded,  or  thrust  aside. 

This  minister's  reading  was  broader  and  more  varied 
than  that  of  the  second,  —  with  the  third  there  need  be 
no  comparison  made  upon  this  or  any  other  subject, — 
but  it  would  be  considered  narrow  to-day.  He  doubt- 
less knew  something  of  Shakespeare,  but  he  would  no 
more  have  thought  of  quoting  him  in  the  pulpit  than 
of  quoting  Boccaccio  or  Rabelais.  Gibbon's  History 
was  probably  interdicted  for  its  too  celebrated  sixteenth 
chapter ;  Hume's,  for  his  arguments  against  miracles  ; 
Chaucer  and  Dryden  for  immodest  license  ;  Pope  for 
the  rationalistic  philosophy  of  the  "  Essay  on  Man," 
and  for  the  filth  of  the  "Dunciad."  Swift,  Prior,  Gay, 
Herrick,  Suckling,  and  many  more  were  set  aside  for 
obvious  reasons.  In  fact,  an  orthodox  clergyman 
would  have  but  a  limited  selection  if  he  were  to  read 
none  but  unexceptionable  books.  The  works  of  Eng- 
lish divines,  with  I^acon,  Milton,  Johnson,  Gray,  Col- 
lins, Cowper,  and  Wordsworth,  and  the  class  of  religious 
books  mentioned  in  a  former  chapter,  made  up  the  bulk 
of  his  library. 

The  reviews  which  the  fourth  minister  read  were 
"  religious,"  and  any  discussion  of  literature  in  them 
was  incidental,  and  in  the  clerical  manner.  Nor  was 
any  purely  literary  periodical  taken  in   the  town.     But 


26o  QUABBIN 

the  minister  was  still  strongly  inclined  to  reading  and 
study,  and  had  the  habits  of  a  bookish  man.  Havins: 
inherited  a  small  fortune,  he  was  free  from  anxiety,  and 
besides  he  had  no  desire  for  money.  He  was  not  in- 
different to  the  temporal  welfare  of  his  parishioners, 
but  he  never  cfot  tlic  least  knowledfre  of  their  farming: 
or  trades.  Whether  turnips  grew  on  trees,  or  shoe-pegs 
were  thrashed  out  of  oat-sheaves,  were  matters  of  no 
consequence.  He  was  not  absolutely  ignorant  of  the 
world's  work,  but  it  did  not  concern  him.  A  horse  was 
a  necessary  evil;  a  garden  was  a  place  for  penance;  if 
he  had  to  harness  the  one  or  spade  the  other,  he  would 
not  have  accepted  either  as  a  gift.  He  had  never  been 
a  gymnast,  ball-player,  or  pedestrian.  In  the  use  of 
tools,  and  in  regard  to  household  jobs  in  general,  he 
rivalled  Emerson  in  helplessness.  He  lived  in  his  in- 
tellectual and  moral  nature.  Although  pleasant  and 
genial,  he  had  no  more  points  of  contact  with  an  ordi- 
nary man  in  regard  to  every-day  affairs  than  a  billiard- 
ball.  If  Farmer  Sherman  showed  him  his  mighty 
oxen,  the  minister  never  thought  to  praise  them ;  in- 
stead of  that,  he  might  be  thinking  of  the  Greek  terms 
for  their  rolling  gait  and  calm  eyes.  John  Ramsay 
wondered  that  he  never  gave  a  second  glance  at  his 
"2.40"  IMorgan  trotting-horse.  It  was  a  magnificent 
animal,  whether  at  rest  or  in  motion  ;  but  the  minister 
thought  chiefly  of  the  disagreeable  shaking-up  one 
would  get  to  be  driven  at  such  speed,  and  of  the  pelt- 
ing of  sand  from  the  flying  feet.  He  felt  the  beauty 
of  the  deep  green  meadows,  starred  with  the  gold  of 
kingcups  and  cowslips  ;  but  never  thought  of  estimat- 
ing how  many  tons  of  grass  they  yielded  to  the  acre. 
Sheep  were  picturesque  as  white  dots  on  the  hill  pas- 


ROBERT  IV  261 

tures,  or  when  massed  under  the  farm  sheds;  but  he  did 
not  know  the  weight  of  fleeces  or  the  price  of  mutton. 

The  elders  of  the  church  knew  his  devotion  to  his 
work;  a  few  recognized  dimly  his  attainments;  all  the 
parish  felt  the  glow  of  his  piety  ;  yet  there  were  few 
houses  in  which  he  was  really  at  home,  and  few  people 
who  felt  him  to  be  near.  They  loved  him  and  rever- 
enced him,  but  on  a  pedestal  ;  and,  on  his  part,  his 
senses  were  so  delicate,  and  his  tastes  so  refined,  that 
the  contact  of  many  well-meaning  persons  was  almost 
painful.  Perhaps,  also,  the  relations  with  his  people 
would  have  been  more  intimate  if  he  had  not,  with 
others  causes  for  isolation,  been  childless.  He  alwavs 
seemed  to  have  his  head  in  the  clouds  (figuratively 
speaking),  even  when  he  walked  abroad  with  his  rather 
stately  wife ;  with  a  child  to  lead  them,  the  world  would 
have  had  a  new  aspect.  In  making  pastoral  calls,  when 
he  came  where  young  children  were,  his  manner  often 
became  so  solemn  that  the  little  creatures  fancied 
there  was  some  momently  impending  trouble,  and  be- 
gan to  whimper.  This  forbidding  austerity  arose  solely 
from  his  intense  anxiety  to  ''  win  souls  to  Christ." 

In  regard  to  the  affairs  of  the  parish  and  the  schools, 
he  was  a  vivifying  influence  rather  than  a  leader  and 
manager.  He  made  few  personal  efforts,  not  because 
he  was  lukewarm,  but  because  he  was  diffident  and  un- 
skilful. A  word  from  him  had  weight,  and  he  was  not 
slow  to  speak  when  there  was  occasion,  but  he  did 
not  know  how  to  use  his  parishioners  like  chessmen. 
The  rule  of  total  abstinence  was  maintained  in  the 
church  ;  but,  if  he  had  been  in  the  place  of  the  second 
minister,  he  could  not  have  preached  that  fiery  sermon 
by  the  woodpile,   nor  terrified  that   drunken   circle   of 


262  QUABBIN 

mourners.  He  had  the  courage  to  preach  against 
slavery,  and  described  it  as  "a  cancer  eating  into  the 
vitals  of  the  nation  ; "  but  his  sermon,  like  the  common 
denunciation  of  the  scribes  and  pharisees,  dead  near 
two  thousand  years,  led  to  no  practical  result.  One  old 
man  in  Ouabbin  had  for  many  years  cast  an  anti- 
slavery  vote,  amid  the  jeers  of  politicians  and  the  in- 
sults of  the  baser  sort.  The  sermon  was  a  comfort  to 
this  solitary  voter,  but  brought  him  no  helpers  ;  he 
continued  to  cast  his  one  vote  for  years  afterward.  It 
was  supposed  that  Garrison  and  his  friends  were  trying 
to  rend  the  churches,  and  to  set  up  women  as  preach- 
ers. Besides,  the  chief  industry  in  the  mills  was  spin- 
ning cotton  ;  and,  without  slaves,  how  could  there  be 
any  cotton  .'*  On  that  point  all  the  leading  men  of  the 
villa2:e  were  as  dosimatic  as  the  Chancellor  of  the  Ex- 
chequer  in  expounding  a  budget. 

He  was  very  earnest  in  his  desire  to  raise  the  stand- 
ard of  teaching,  but  he  was  a  favoring  influence  rather 
than  a  moving  force.  During  his  time  something  was 
done  to  make  the  schoolhouses  decent  and  comfortable, 
to  increase  the  annual  appropriation  by  the  town,  to  ex- 
tend the  school  terms,  and  to  secure  better  teachers 
by  stricter  preliminary  examinations. 

On  the  subject  of  foreign  missions  the  minister  had 
a  profound  conviction.  In  his  sermons  and  in  his 
remarks  at  prayer-meetings,  as  well  as  in  his  pastoral 
calls,  he  represented  the  need  of  the  perishing  world, 
and  extolled  the  courage  and  self-denying  labors  of  the 
missionaries  ;  and  he  urged  that  concerted  efforts 
should  be  made  to  increase  contributions.  A  system- 
atic canvass  was  begun  by  the  deacons  and  teachers 
of    the   Sunday-school.     The  rich  were  urged  to  give, 


>         »  1*.  It'   »? 


-^       ^AHu>^^uJi 


ROBERT  IV  263 

and  did  give  liberally  ;  but  all,  without  exception,  gave 
something  ;  even  boys  were  prevailed  upon  to  open 
their  tin  boxes  and  part  with  their  few  jingling  cents. 
So  thoroughly  was  the  work  prosecuted  that  in  one  year 
the  collections  amounted  to  more  than  three  thousand 
dollars  ;  which  was  rather  more  than  the  annual  cost  of 
the  public  schools,  and  considerably  more  than  the  ex- 
penses of  the  parish,  including  the  minister's  salary. 
This  was  not  a  mere  gathering  of  superfluous  cash  ;  it 
came  from  actual  self-denial  of  comforts,  from  the  renun- 
ciation of  books  and  amusements,  as  well  as  from  the 
breaking  up  of  petty  hoards  ;  it  represented  endless  sew- 
ing and  knitting ;  so  that  the  total  was  not  merely  money, 
but  a  near  and  dear  part  of  human  lives.-  This  result, 
which  so  much  rejoiced  the  minister,  and  upon  whicli  he 
expatiated  with  just  pride,  was  turned  upon  him  and  upon 
the  leaders  of  the  church  in  an  unexpected  manner. 

At  the  next  town  meeting,  when  the  appropriation 
for  schools  was  under  consideration,  the  advocates  of 
progress  and  reform  urged  the  raising  of  a  larger  sum 
by  taxation.  They  dwelt  upon  the  condition  of  the 
children  who  were  growing  up  with  such  meagre 
opportunities,  and  showed  what  might  be  done  if  the 
committee  had  the  necessary  funds.  It  was  getting  to 
be  an  old  story,  for  the  arguments  had  often  been  pre- 
sented in  previous  years.  At  last  one  old  farmer, 
Captain  Newcomb,  arose  and  ''  freed  his  mind." 

**  Mr.  IVIoderator,  I  dunno  but  wut  all  the  gen'leman 
says  is  trew  "  (it  was  ]\Ir.  Grant  who  had  last  spoken), 
"though,  fer  myself,  I  don't  see  thet  larnin'  would  'a 
made  mv  life  anv  easier.  I  kin  read  the  Bible  an'  a 
newspaper,  an'  I  hain't  time  to  read  anv  more.  All  my 
time's  took  up  tu  airn  a  livin',  an'  tcr  pay  my  taxes;  an', 


264  QUABDIN 

ef  they  was  tcr  be  any  higher,  I  couldn't  pay  *em,  'thout 
scrimpin'  my  vittles  an'  clothes.  I  kin  reckon  the  vally 
of  a  hog  or  a  fat  ox  ;  an'  ef  I  heel  larnin'  to  cal'late  an 
eclipse  I  couldn't  make  the  heft  o'  ary  one  on  'em  a 
paound  more.  My  boys  '11  hev  ter  foller  me,  an'  the 
larnin'  thet's  sarved  mo  '11  hev  tcr  du  fer  them.  So  fer 
a  blacksmith's  son,  or  a  shewmaker's  ;  they  kin  make 
boss  shews  an'  wimmin's  shews,  ef  so  be  they're  willin' 
ter  du  wut  their  fathers  hev  done,  an'  grow  up  stiddy 
workin'-men.  Ef  they  want  ter  be  lawyers  an'  doctors 
an'  ministers,  thet's  another  mahter  ;  an'  it  stands  ter 
reason  thet  ther'  ain't  never  room  fer  but  one  at  a  time 
fer  'em  in  a  taown  like  this,  in  a  gineration  o'  men. 
When  a  youngster  wants  ter  git  up  a  peg  in  the  world, 
ther's  alius  a  way,  ef  he's  got  the  brains  an'  the  grit  ; 
an'  I  don't  see  the  yeuse  o'  puttin'  all  the  boys  in  the 
way  o'  gittin'  up  ter  the  same  peg,  ef  they  hain't  the 
'bilities.  The  skulc  sh'd  be  fer  the  evrige,  an'  not  fer 
one  or  tew.  But  even  supposin'  we  was  agreed  ter  hev 
the  skules  what  the  gen'lemen  want,  I  sh'd  like  ter 
know  ef  ther'  ain't  some  way  ter  du  it  'thout  piiin'  up 
taxes.''  Some  folks  in  this  village,  they  tell  me,  make 
more  money  in  runnin'  a  factory  a  day  than  I  kin  on 
my  farm  in  a  year.  Taxes  ain't  nothin'  ter  them  ;  but 
they're  heavy  'nough  fer  me  naow. 

''  I  heered  t'other  day  thet  this  perrish  bed  raised 
more'n  three  thaousan'  dollars  fer  forrin  missions. 
Three  thaousan'  dollars  in  a  poor  lectle  taown,  ter 
keep  a  set  o'  well-fed  fellers  in  forrin  parts,  wher'  the 
people  don't  want  'em,  an'  wher'  they  kin  du  plaguy 
leetle  good.  Thet's  more  money  than  all  aour  skules 
cost,  'cordin'  ter  tlic  report  jest  read.  Naow,  Mr.  Mod- 
erator, they  say  chcrrity  begins  ter  hum  ;  an'  ef  the  sit- 


ROBERT  IV  265 

tiwation  of  aour  boys  an'  gals  is  so  dreffle  bad,  an'  ef 
we  air,  all  on  us,  in  danger  o'  becomin'  heathens  an' 
savages  fer  want  o'  better  skules,  it  'pears  ter  me  thet  a 
part  o'  thet  air  three  thaousan'  dollars  better  be  spent 
here  fust ;  an'  arterwards,  ef  ther's  any  left,  it  kin  be 
gi'n  ter  the  missionaries." 

The  hit  was  felt,  in  spite  of  the  low  tone  of  the  objec- 
tions to  higher  education.  Many  of  the  country  people 
were  in  ecstasies,  and*even  the  most  devout  of  church- 
members  smiled.  The  only  reply  came  from  a  deacon 
who  said,  "'These  things  ought  ye  to  have  done,  and 
not  to  have  left  the  other  undone.'  " 

When  the  vote  was  taken,  there  was  only  a  small 
increase  in  the  appropriation.  Progress  was  slow  for 
many  years,  against  the  prevailing  sentiment  expressed 
in  the  first  part  of  the  farmer's  speech. 

The  large  contribution  was  often  referred  to  on  other 
occasions.  When  an  appeal  was  made  for  a  poor  widow, 
a  sick  family,  or  a  man  in  misfortn.me,  the  answer  would 
come,  "  Better  take  sunthin'  from  that  air  three 
thaousan'  dollars  ye've  scraped  up  fer  the  heathen." 


266  QUABBIN 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

DAWN 

A  CASUAL  observer  would  have  noticed  but  few 
changes  in  the  village  from  the  time  of  Joshua  I.  to 
that  of  Robert  IV.  The  new  buildings  were  not  many, 
and  not  in  the  least  imposing  ;  although  there  was  a 
more  general  air  of  neatness  in  houses,  dooryards,  and 
gardens,  and  there  were  more  ornamental  trees.  Sev- 
eral disused  mills  and  shops  had  disappeared,  and,  after 
their  sites  were  levelled  and  turfed,  the  open  spaces 
were  more  agreeable  than  shabby  ruins.  Business  was 
visibly  declining ;  but  this  appeared  to  affect  the  in- 
comes of  few,  for  the  general  style  of  living  was  even 
more  comfortable,  and  all  the  appointments  of  house- 
holds were  in  better  taste. 

In  the  country,  more  of  the  dwellings  were  painted 
and  in  good  repair  ;  scarcely  any  were  so  cheerless  as 
in  the  old  time.  On  the  few  good  farms  barns  were 
built  from  improved  plans.  The  new  barn  was  often  a 
large  structure,  surmounted  by  a  showy  cupola,  bearing 
a  gilded  vane  in  the  form  of  an  ox  or  horse.  Imple- 
ments that  used  to  be  exposed  to  the  weather  were 
sheltered  in  convenient  out-houses.  The  old  strag- 
gling heaps  of  wood  were  cut  and  piled  under  cover, 
and  yards  were  raked  clear  of  chips  and  rub]:>ish. 
These  are  prosy  details,  but  they  count  in  life  as  in 
landscape. 


DA  IViV  267 

Among  the  people  an  almost  insensible  change  was 
going  on,  owing  in  a  great  measure  to  their  more  tem- 
perate and  cleanly  habits.  Few  visages  seen  at  the 
mill  or  the  stores  had  the  old  fiery  glow  ;  hair  had  be- 
come docile  ;  hats  were  not  prematurely  beaten  out  of 
shape  ;  and  the  razor  no  longer  skipped  those  edges 
and  ridges  of  beard  which  told  of  bleary  eyes  and 
trembling  hands.  The  majority  of  men  were  clear- 
eyed  and  clean-looking,  and  wore  comfortable,  well- 
mended  clothing.  Fewer  barrels  of  cider  were  stored, 
and  more  apples  sent  to  market.  Oaths  were  rare, 
except  among  the  dwindling  frequenters  of  the  tavern  ; 
and  one  could  count  upon  the  fingers  all  the  flagrant 
cases  of  habitual  drunkenness. 

Yet  the  farmers  were  hardly  so  prosperous,  for  their 
produce  brought  lower  prices.  There  was  a  market  for 
firewood  and  railroad-ties,  and  other  timber  ;  animals, 
poultry,  and  dairy  products  were  in  demand  ;  but  as  to 
grain,  it  was  seen  that  with  the  extension  of  railroads 
its  price  must  continue  to  fall.  In  raising  bread- 
stuffs  New  England's  day  was  coming  to  an  end.  So, 
throughout  the  town,  young  men  arriving  at  maturity 
were  looking  abroad  for  their  future,  and  in  time  few 
who  were  possessed  of  good  abilities  were  left  behind. 
Destiny  had  some  surprises  for  the  exiles  or  explorers  ; 
for  one,  a  place  as  fireman  on  a  locomotive ;  for  another, 
a  quarter  section  of  prairie  land  ;  for  a  third,  a  desk  in 
a  merchant's  office  in  Boston  ;  for  a  fourth,  a  seat  in 
the  Stock  Exchange  in  New  York.  One  handsome 
fellow,  moderately  educated,  and  with  no  inheritance, 
was  taken  for  a  husband  by  a  wealthy  woman,  and  car- 
ried off  to  her  ''brown-stone  front"  on  Fiftli  Avenue. 

Women  more  than  men  are  rooted  to  the  soil,  quasi 


268  QUABBIN 

adscriptce  glcbcB,  and,  owing  to  the  absence  of  partners, 
the  number  of  tlie  unmarried  increased  ;  but  in  one 
way  or  another  many  of  them  found  spouses,  and  there 
are  few  Northern  or  Western  States  where  there  are 
not  daughters  of  Ouabbin  now  at  the  head  of  families. 
Although  now  and  then  a  young  man  became  promi- 
nent or  made  a  fortune,  the  influence  of  the  young 
women  was  nobler  and  more  pervasive  ;  for  they  hap- 
pened to  possess  a  larger  share  of  mind,  culture,  and 
worth.  Nearly  all  who  were  highly  educated  married 
away  from  home,  and  some  of  them  attained  to  posi- 
tions for  which  there  are  no  titles,  but  for  which  the 
honors  given  to  eminent  men  would  be  inadequate.  In 
the  case  of  a  mother  of  half  a  dozen  vigorous  and  well- 
trained  children,  who  is  foremost  in  religious  work  ; 
who  sets  luxury  aside,  and  uses  her  wealth  to  do  good  ; 
who  is  the  friend  of  the  poor,  and  comes  to  be  the  one 
person  looked  up  to,  reverenced,  and  loved  by  a  whole 
town,  what  rank  or  honor  would  be  appropriate  }  Such 
a  woman  leaves  a  memory  that  is  blessed,  and  God  will 
take  care  of  her  reward. 

Gay  young  women,  like  Eliza  and  Lois  Grant,  when 
the  new  wine  of  youth  had  done  fuming,  became  excel- 
lent and  notable  members  of  society.  Nor  was  educa- 
tion confined  to  the  rich.  During  and  after  the  reign 
of  Robert  IV.  it  happened  that  a  great  many  bright 
girls  from  humble  families,  after  beginning  with  the 
transient  "select  schools,"  found  means  to  attend  some 
distant  academy  or  boarding-school,  with  marvellous 
results.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  some  budding  girl, 
who  a  few  years  before  was  a  freckled  and  wild-haired 
tomboy,  come  back  with  the  calm  eyes  of  conscious 
power,  and  with  tlie  oquijimcnt  and  manners  to   shine 


DAWN  269 

in  a  drawing-room.  No  leveller  like  education,  for  it 
levels  upwards. 

The  presence  of  cultivated  young  women,  even  for 
a  few  years  each,  began  to  tell  upon  the  old  dialect. 
Perhaps  the  characteristic  tone  was  not  so  much  ameli- 
orated, but  it  became  rare  to  hear  sentences  framed  on 
slovenly  models,  and  rough  with  contractions.  Some 
of  these  women  became  teachers,  and  were  active  prop- 
agandists ;  some  of  them  married,  and  succeeded  in 
toning  down  the  speech  of  their  husbands  and  relatives. 
All  were  active  assents  in  brinirins:  about  the  coming: 
enlightenment. 

As  a  result  of  the  departure  of  the  young,  the  peo- 
ple of  Ouabbin  might  be  likened  to  a  forest  which  had 
parted  with  most  of  its  lusty  and  growing  trees,  and 
consisted  largely  of  old  and  wind-shaken  trunks,  with 
few  branches  and  sparse  foliage.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  fourth  minister's  time  the  conCTesration  on  a  Sun- 
day  was  noticeable  for  the  numbers  of  gray  heads. 
There  were  a  few  old  couples,  but  more  widowers  and 
widows  ;  there  were  the  local  storekeepers  and  mechan- 
ics, the  venerable  lawyer,  the  few  mill-owners,  and 
others  upon  whom  the  frame  of  things  seemed  to  rest. 
Besides,  there  were  a  few  mill-hands,  and  other  "  hew- 
ers of  wood  and  drawers  of  water,"  most  of  them  re- 
cent immigrants  ;  but  there  were  very  few  young  men 
and  women  of  the  old  stock.  Those  who  still  remained 
were  either  without  ambition  and  courage,  or  those 
whom  duty  and  affection  retained  at  home  to  take  care 
of  the  old.  Now  and  then  would  be  seen  some  native 
wlio  had  come  home  on  a  visit,  and  his  appearance  at 
meeting  was  the  subject  of  much  curiosity.  But  any 
one  wlio  liad  known  the  people  could  reck(^n  the  absent 


270  QUABBIN 

of  both  sexes  from  the  vacant  spaces  in  so  man\'  pews. 
A  deeper  melancholy,  if  that  were  possible,  had  settled 
upon  many  pinched  and  grizzled  faces. 

This  slow  exodus  began  with  the  completion  of  the 
trunk  railroad.  It  was  no  longer  a  difficult  thing  to 
traverse  the  State,  or  even  to  pay  a  visit  to  friends  in 
Illinois.  People  were  no  longer  rooted  to  natal  soil, 
but  moved  about  with  a  light-heartedness  or  indiffer- 
ence, strangely  in  contrast  with  old  custom.  In  the 
time  of  the  first  minister  very  few  in  the  village  had 
ever  travelled  fifty  miles,  and  a  visit  to  Boston  was  the 
talk  of  a  lifetime.  There  were  seldom  anv  removals  ; 
except  of  the  very  poor,  who  had  nothing  to  carry  ;  — 
where  a  man  was  born,  there  his  lot  was  cast,  and  there 
he  toiled  until  his  release  came.  In  one  respect  this 
was  a  wholesome  restraint  ;  honesty  abides,  while  vil- 
lany  if  discovered  is  forced  to  fly.  It  was  strange,  too, 
to  see,  after  this  general  movement  began,  how  easily 
occupations  were  changed.  Before,  a  youth  followed 
in  his  father's  footsteps  ;  and  to  become  some  day  the 
owner  of  the  farm,  or  head  of  the  workshop,  was  the 
great  prize  in  life  ;  but  when  the  door  was  suddenly 
opened  into  the  great  world,  the  farms  and  shops  of 
Quabbin,  seen  over  the  shoulder,  looked  mean.  A 
youth  when  he  set  forth  generally  believed  that  For- 
tune was  waiting  for  him  in  some  guise,  if  he  could 
only  recognize  her  ;  and  until  she  was  revealed  to  him 
he  did  not  care  to  what  labor  he  applied  himself.  For 
the  time  being  he  was  willing  to  be  teamster,  porter, 
clerk,  or  "utility  man."  This  readiness  to  adapt  one's 
self  to  anything  was  a  wholly  new  symptom  ;  and  if  it 
was  attended  by  some  instability  or  feverish  impatience, 
it   was   not   without   good   results.     The  old  fixedness 


DA  WAT  271 

and  torpor  were  gone,  and  society  was  full  of  motion, 
albeit  motion  was  not  always  progress. 

There  were  two  stations  on  the  railroad,  each  about 
a  dozen  miles  from  Ouabbin,  with  which  there  was 
daily  communication.  The  trade  of  the  local  stores 
was  speedily  reduced  to  odds  and  ends,  because  farmers 
drove  with  their  produce  to  the  stations  and  brouglit 
back  their  supplies,  and  because  well-to-do  people  went 
by  rail  to  the  nearest  large  town  for  '^  shopping."  These 
frequent  excursions  served  to  break  the  monotony  of 
life  in  a  small  village.  Then  daily  newspapers  began 
to  appear  in  the  stores  and  counting-rooms,  and  in  a 
few  residences,  and  the  ideas  of  Boston  and  New  York, 
the  commercial,  political,  and  literary  centres,  began  to 
awaken  a  vivid  and  continuous  interest.  This  was  an 
epoch.  Ouabbin  became  a  part  of  the  great  world, 
and  felt  the  universal  pulsations  of  humanity.  It  could 
never  be  solitary  again.  Many  influences  contributed 
to  its  enlightenment,  but  the  railroad  and  the  daily 
newspaper  were  the  chief.  Home  and  foreign  news, 
politics,  inventions,  and  discoveries  in  arts  and  science, 
were  brought  home  to  people  who  had  never  had  any- 
thing to  occupy  their  minds  except  neighborhood  gos- 
sip and  sermons.  The  educational  power  and  stimulus 
effected  an  entire  transformation  ;  although  at  first 
many  a  reader  spelled  his  way  through  paragraphs  but 
dimly  understood.  The  appreciation  of  newspapers 
rose  with  the  spread  of  education  ;  but  from  the  begin- 
ning there  was  some  notion  of  the  solidaritv  of  man- 
kind, and  of  the  inestimable  value  of  knowledge. 

Other  changes  were  in  progress.  Instead  of  hcav\', 
rumbling  wagons,  there  were  light  buggies  moving  with- 
out n(jise.     Ckunsv  and  rust\-  harnesses  were  exchau'^ed 


2/2  QUABBIN 

for  newer  work,  with  finer  lines  and  tasteful  buckles. 
In  former  times  a  man  whose  clothes  were  made  at 
home  by  the  ancient  tailoress,  who  went  the  rounds  of 
the  neighborhood,  could  be  easily  distinguished  at  a 
hundred  yards'  distance  by  his  slouchy  and  baggy  out- 
lines. Such  a  costume  was  naturally  associated  with 
huge,  shapeless  boots,  an  old  hat  with  the  crown  stove 
in,  the  nasal  drawl  of  the  rustic  dialect,  and  tobacco 
stains  at  the  corners  of  the  mouth.  Such  a  repulsive 
outfit  was  becoming  rare,  especially  in  the  village  ;  as 
all,  excepting  the  very  poor,  were  in  the  habit  of  going 
to  some  large  town  for  their  clothing. 

Especially  marked  was  the  change  among  women, 
who  are  always  quicker  than  men  to  perceive  the  beauty 
and  advantages  of  new  things.  Little  by  little  what 
used  to  be  stigmatized  as  "  city  ways  "  began  to  come 
in  without  comment,  — neater  boots  and  gloves,  tasteful 
scarfs,  better  *' form  "  in  gait  and  attitude,  a  readier 
and  smoother  speech,  and  more  composure  of  manner. 

Most  important  were  the  changes  in  tools  and  imple- 
ments. It  would  be  difficult  to  exaggerate  the  relief 
that  came  to  working-men,  —  and  almost  everybody 
worked  in  Ouabbin,  —  when  the  heavy  and  awkward 
hoes,  shovels,  axes,  forks,  rakes,  and  scythes  were  re- 
placed by  new  tools,  so  light,  yet  so  strong,  so  polished 
and  so  perfectly  adapted  to  use,  such  as  are  now  seen 
in  New  England  and  in  the  West.  They  are  found 
nowhere  else  ;  those  in  Great  Britain,  where  farming 
and  gardening  are  carried  to  perfection,  are  generally 
twice  as  heavy,  and  not  so  effective. 

The  same  is  true  in  regard  to  mechanics'  tools.  The 
Yankee  makes  and  uses  hammers,  saws,  files,  pincers, 
screw-cutters,  vices,  tailors'  shears,  dental  instruments. 


DA  WiV  273 

and  the  like,  which  are  fashioned  with  a  precision 
seldom  attained  elsewhere. 

The  children  of  Ouabbin  that  were  scattered  abroad 
gave  new  light  upon  countless  affairs  by  their  letters 
and  visits  to  the  old  people.  Travellers  came  and  went, 
and  soon  the  hydrostatic  paradox  of  Doctor  Holmes 
was  in  some  measure  exemplified  ;  that  is  to  say,  with 
free  outflow  and  inflow  between  the  ocean  and  ever  so 
small  a  receptacle,  the  level  of  the  latter  can  in  no  wise 
be  depressed. 

Events  and  the  progress  of  ideas  have  been  grouped 
under  the  reigns  of  successive  ministers  ;  but  it  is  evi- 
dent that  in  many  instances  the  ministers,  if  not  pas- 
sive spectators,  were  wholly  incapable  of  initiating  the 
changes  that  took  place  ;  they  might  as  well  have  the 
credit  of  directing  the  weather.  The  good  Robert  IV. 
duly  preached  his  earnest  and  faultless  sermons,  made 
his  conscientious  visits,  and  distributed  all  the  sunshine 
compatible  with  his  duty  of  warning  sinners.  He  was 
as  worthy  of  veneration  as  Goldsmith's  village  parson. 
Yet,  had  it  rested  solely  with  him,  the  people  would 
have  long  remained  in  their  provincial  isolation.  And, 
further,  the  time  had  passed  when  the  intellectual  char- 
acter, opinions,  and  will  of  the  public  could  be  controlled 
by  any  one  man.  In  the  days  of  Joshua  I.  there  were 
not  half  a  dozen  in  the  town  who  could  be  said  to  have 
self-based  character  and  reasoned  opinions.  When,  in 
every  quarter,  men  and  women  v/ere  reading  for  them- 
selves, there  was  a  distribution  of  power. 


2/4  QUABBIN 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

MISS    WICKS'S    TEA-PARTY 

Miss  Wicks  was  an  only  daughter,  who  kept  the 
house  of  her  father,  a  widower.  It  was  a  pleasant  old 
house,  standing  on  the  lot  where,  almost  a  hundred 
years  before,  the  primitive  hatters  had  lived.  In  the 
rear  a  garden  with  terraces  extended  down  to  the  river. 
The  broad  slopes  of  the  Russell  farm  and  a  part  of  the 
shoulder  of  Great  Ouabbin  formed  an  attractive  out- 
look from  the  rear  windows.  There  were  old-fashioned 
flowers  in  the  beds  below  the  house,  such  as  roses, 
pinks,  sweet-williams,  peonies,  balsams,  geraniums, 
lilies,  and  violets  ;  and  in  front  a  horse-chestnut  tree, 
a  feathery  larch,  and  a  mountain-ash,  with  its  clusters 
of  pale  coral,  formed  a  checkered  screen  against  the 
western  sun. 

Miss  Wicks  had  enjoyed  all  the  advantages  of  educa- 
tion then  obtainable  ;  and,  though  far  from  beautiful, 
she  was  attractive  on  account  of  her  delicacy  of  feeling, 
courtesy,  and  tact.  No  one  who  came  to  know  her  ever 
thought  her  plain.  Upon  a  memorable  evening  she  had 
invited  the  Grant  sisters  and  two  gentlemen  to  tea. 
Her  father  did  not  join  the  party  until  late. 

One  of  the  guests  was  the  new  doctor,  Fletcher  by 
name,  who  was  a  bit  of  a  dand}-,  and  conspicuous  for 
wearing  patent-leather  straps  to  hold  down  his  strained 


MISS  iriCKS'S    TEA-PARTY  2/5 

pantaloons.  The  other  was  David  Wentworth,  a  stu- 
dent who  was  absent  from  college  on  leave,  engaged  in 
teaching:  a  select  school.  The  fact  that  he  was  so 
employed*was  proof  that  he  was  not  rich;  but  he  was 
neatly  dressed,  and  his  manners  and  speech  showed 
him  well  born  and  well  bred.  The  contrast  between 
him  and  the  doctor  was  marked.  In  the  one  case  you 
were  earnestly  regarding  the  man,  in  the  other  you 
were  more  attracted  by  the  clothes  ;  for,  besides  the 
innovation  of  trouser  straps,  the  doctor  was  finical  in 
regard  to  linen  and  ornaments.  He  had  the  air  of 
a  cultured  man,  but  one  who  attached  importance 
to  externals,  and  who  flattered  himself  upon  his 
superiority. 

The  small  party  was  seated  around  a  large  table,  for 
tea  was  not  served  in  those  days  on  dainty  little  stands 
with  trays,  and  there  were  two  vacant  places. 

Miss  Wicks  was  askins:  her  ^uests  to  admire  her  old 
china.  "My  father,"  she  said,  ''bought  it  in  Boston 
the  year  after  I  was  born." 

"Now,  really,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  can't  call  that 
old  china  !  " 

"Old  enough,"  said  Miss  Wicks,  smiling.  "Father 
drove  with  mother  from  here  to  Boston,  and  was  two 
days  on  the  road." 

"A  delicate  and  beautiful  piece  of  porcelain,"  said 
Wentworth,  holding  up  a  cup  to  the  light.  "  Happy 
the  man  who  will  be  served  by  it." 

The  eyes  of  Eliza  and  Lois  Grant  exchanged  a  faintly 
perceptible  gleam. 

"  I  thought,"  said  the  doctor,  "  vou  were  going  to  toll 
me  it  was  brought  from  China  \)\  tlie  old  gentleman 
opposite, — your  relative,  is  he  not  .^     lie  looks  as  if  he 


2/6  QUAE  BIN 

might  liave  been  a  mandarin  of  ever  so  many  gold 
buttons." 

"  Our  families  have  some  slight  relationship,"  said 
Miss  Wicks,  "but  the  set  did  not  come  from  him.  It 
is  not  rare,  and  I  fancy  it  was  made  in  France.  —  I  was 
going  to  ask  you,  Mr.  Wentworth,  about  your  school. 
I  have  an  interest  in  the  young  girls  who  are  coming 
on.  I  remember  what  the  schools  were  a  few  years 
ago,  and  I  am  glad  to  know  that  there  are  more  advan- 
tages to-day." 

The  doctor  perceived  that  he  was  set  aside,  and  began 
to  give  his  attention  to  his  neighbor,  Lois  Grant.  They 
talked  of  agreeable  nothings  in  a  desultory  way,  but 
after  a  while  both  were  drawn  to  listen  to  the  school- 
master. 

''It  is  grateful  to  know,"  said  Wentworth,  ''that  you 
are  interested,  for  there  is  need  of  sympathy.  At 
present  it  is  like  lifting  a  dead  weight  without  lever- 
age. My  pupils  learn  their  lessons,  but  they  lack  intel- 
ligence, or,  I  should  say,  they  lack  general  knowledge. 
I  happened  the  other  day  to  make  a  reference  to  geol- 
ogy, and  found  they  hadn't  the  least  notion  of  it.  For 
very  shame  I  had  to  stop  and  make  some  explanations 
upon  the  structure  of  the  earth's  crust.  That  led  to 
questions  upon  the  time  that  must  have  been  taken  to 
harden  the  successive  formations  ;  and,  after  a  few 
seconds  of  mental  calculation,  I  was  asked  if,  accord- 
ing to  the  Bible,  the  creation  of  the  world  was  not  just 
four  thousand  and  four  years  before  Christ  1  I  sug- 
gested that  it  wasn't  necessary  to  hold  strictly  to  bibli- 
cal chronology,  for  that  was  only  a  deduction  from 
uncertain  data,  and  the  work  of  fallible  men  ;  wliile  the 
testimony  of  tlie  rocks  was  evidence  which  could  not  be 
contradicted." 


MISS  WJCKS'S   TEA-PARTY  2// 

The  doctor  gave  an  approving  nod  to  the  inquiring 
glances  of  his  neighbors,  but  Miss  Wicks  looked 
troubled.  She  said  she  had  heard  a  sermon  by  Pro- 
fessor Hitchcock,  the  great  geologist,  and  thought  he 
showed  there  was  no  conflict  between  Genesis  and 
geology.  • 

"  On  that  subject,"  said  Wentworth,  ''  I  say  nothing. 
For  the  sake  of  the  book,  I  hope  it  is  so  ;  science  will 
take  care  of  itself.  I  was  giving  that  merely  as  an 
illustration  of  the  want  of  knowledge.  In  literature 
the  condition  is  worse.  I  was  speaking  to  the  class 
about  Shakespeare,  and,  to  my  surprise,  saw  no 
responsive  light  in  their  faces.  On  inquiry,  I  found 
that  not  one  had  ever  read  a  play  or  poem  of  his.  I 
said  something  to  show  them  his  place  among  the 
world's  great  poets,  and  then  a  girl  asked  if  Shake- 
speare did  not  write  for  the  theatre  }  if  the  theatre  was 
not  immoral,  and  if  it  was  Christian  to  read  his  plays  } 
The  questions  and  the  faces  of  the  class  showed  there 
had  been  prevention  from  some  quarter,  and  I  changed 
the  subject." 

"  We  had  selections  at  our  school,"  said  Miss  Grant, 
''but  never  plays  entire." 

The  doctor  looked  amused. 

''  Our  Shakespeare  was  edited,  and  with  notes  for  the 
use  of  schools,"  said  Miss  Wicks. 

"That  'editing'  has  been  a  sore  subject,"  said 
Wentworth.  "There  has  been  sad  work  done  in  that 
way  by  male  prudes.  The  main  question  is,  if  men 
and  women  can  be  called  'educated'  who  grow  up  in 
ignorance  of  the  greatest  poet  of  our  race,  —  jxu-haps 
of  any  race.  If  my  ]:)upils  were  asked,  I  fear  they 
would  give  that  place  to  Dr.   Watts." 


2;8  QUAE  BIN 

"Doctor  Watts  !"  almost  shouted  the  doctor.  ''That 
is  sfood.  Methinks  I  hear  the  laureate  of  bread-and- 
butter  misses  and  short-jacket  boys  :  — 

*  Let  dogs  delight  to  bark  and  bite ; ' 
%  '  How  doth  the  little  busy  bee  ; '  and, 

'  Hush,  my  babe,  lie  still  and  slumber  ! '  " 

It  seemed  almost  sacrilegious  to  make  fun  of  the  ver- 
sifier of  the  Psalms,  yet  the  young  ladies  smiled  a  little 
at  the  sally. 

"  It  hurts  my  feelings,"  said  Wentworth,  *'  when  I 
find  an  empty  niche  in  a  mind  where  Shakespeare's 
image  should  be  ;  but,  for  most  people,  ignorance  of 
Scott  is  quite  as  much  to  be  regretted.  Not  to  have 
read  the  *  Antiquary,'  or  '  Quentin  Durward  '  !  Not  to 
have  devoured  *  Ivanhoe ' !  Not  to  have  loved  Flora 
Maclvor !  I  can  hardly  conceive  it  !  I  hope,  Miss 
Wicks,  you  were  encouraged  to  read  those  charming 
books } " 

*'  I  have  read  most  of  them.  My  parents  did  not  ap- 
prove of  reading  novels,  but  these  were  exceptional, 
for  their  history  and  their  healthy  tone.  But  I  have 
no  copies.  I  knew  father  would  not  like  to  have  them 
on  the  shelves  ;  and  I  don't  think  there  is  a  full  set  in 
town.     What  do  you  say,  Eliza  .^  " 

*'  I  do  not  know  of  any.  While  at  school  we  read 
several  of  the  Waverley  novels,  not  exactly  by  permis- 
sion, because  the  rules  were  against  all  novels,  but  our 
teacher  made  no  serious  objection  to  our  reading  a  few 
of  the  most  famous." 

*'  Well,"  said  Wentworth,  ''  I  don't  sympathize  with 
any  man  who  renounces  for  himself,  or  deprives  others 
of,  the  pleasure  of  reading  Scott." 


MISS  IVICKS'S   TEA-PARTY  279 

"I  wish  I  could  read  him  a  dozen  times,"  said  the 
doctor;   ''I  am  sure  I  should  always  feel  the  old  thrill." 

*'The  dead  past,"  continued  Wentworth,  "lives  in 
his  pages.  It  is  history  visible  and  real.  But  do  you 
think,  Miss  Wicks,  that  your  minister  objects  to  the 
Waverley  novels  .'*  "  * 

"  I  really  don't  know.  I  am  afraid  he  does  ;  not  so 
much  for  anything  in  them,  you  know,  but  because 
they  absorb  the  mind,  and  draw  it  away  from  serious 
thin2:s." 

She  was  beginning  to  look  solemn. 

''Does  he  object  to  poetry  as  well.'*" 

''  He  dotes  on  poetry,"  said  Lois  Grant.  *'  He  loves 
Virgil  and  Milton,  and  Gray  and  Wordsworth,  and  a 
great  many  more." 

''  And  I  heard  him  read  a  piece  by  Mr.  Bryant,  a  re- 
cent poet,"  said  Eliza  Grant.  "  I  can't  think  of  the 
title,  but  it  was  about  death,  and  as  beautiful  as  slow 
music." 

''  'Thanatopsis, '  "  suggested  Miss  Wicks. 

''That  view  of  death  is  a  fine  poem  for  a  youth  of 
nineteen  to  have  written,"  said  Wentworth. — "You 
have  heard  of  Edgar  Poe  V 

The  ladies  all  shook  their  heads.  He  continued,  "I 
think  Poe  may  go  far.  He  has  produced  few  poems, 
but  they  have  the  stamp  of  genius,  —  classic  from  their 
birth." 

"  You  seem  to  lay  great  stress  on  novels  and  poetry," 
said  Miss  Wicks. 

"Yes;  on  noble  fiction  like  Scott's,  and  on  poetry 
of  a  high  order.  I  wish  to  bring  them  near.  I  don't 
want  scholars  to  think  of  the  classic  authors  as  so 
many  statues  set  u[)  in  a  gallery  apart,  but  as  real  men, 


28o  QUAE  BIN 

of  whom  the  latest  are  living  to-day  ;  and  that  any  of 
these  may  be  put  on  pedestals  in  due  time.  It  is  a 
long-  stretch  from  Homer  to  the  poet  of  your  county 
newspaper,  but  it  is  not  impossible.  But  I  am  preach- 
ing. Let  me  only  add  that  I  hope  my  scholars  may  be 
led  to  the  affectionate  study  of  works  of  genius,  as  well 
as  to  matters  of  every -day  use." 

There  was  a  rap  at  the  door,  and  a  moment  later  the 
minister  appeared,  and  was  duly  welcomed.  It  was 
evident  that  he  was  not  wholly  unexpected.  Address- 
ing Miss  Wicks,  he  said,  — 

"  My  wife  has  gone  out  on  a  visit  ;  and,  though  I  am 
tardy,  I  concluded  to  avail  myself  of  your  invitation. 
I  am  very  fond  of  a  cup  of  your  fragrant  tea." 

When  the  usual  small  talk  was  ended,  Miss  Wicks 
said  to  the  minister,  very  simply,  "We  have  been  talk- 
ing of  fiction  and  poetry,  such  as  the  Waverley  novels 
and  Shakespeare's  plays  ;  we  should  all  like  to  know 
what  you  think  of  them  }  " 

The  minister's  face  was  a  study.  He  paused  and 
looked  at  all  the  guests  in  turn.  There  was  a  visible 
struggle,  as  if  taste  and  principle  were  at  odds. 

"  If  I  were  to  speak  of  merits  alone,  as  an  abstract 
question,"  said  he,  ''  I  should  have  to  frankly  commend 
them.  I  have  read  the  Waverley  novels,  most  of  them, 
and  Scott's  romantic  poems,  and  I  have  felt  their  charm. 
And  I  read  Shakespeare  while  in  college,  not  only  with 
delight  but  with  wonder  and  awe.  And  I  admit  in 
advance  that  his  occasional  grossness  may  be  pardoned 
on  account  of  the  customs  of  his  age.  But  I  am  a 
Christian  minister,  with  souls  in  charge,  for  wdiom  I 
must  give  account  ;  and  I  should  not  think  myself 
justified  if  I  were  to  favor  the  reading  of  romances  or 


MISS   WICKS 'S   TEA-PARTY  28 1 

poems,  when  my  people  have  so  little  time  for  reading;, 
and  when  there  is  so  much  to  be  done  for  their  eternal 
welfare.  Consider,  sir,"  he  said,  addressing  Wentworth 
after  a  moment's  pause,  "  for  you  are  a  scholar  ;  consider 
in  what  light  St.  Paul  regarded  this  matter.  He  could 
have  read,  and  probably  had  read,  Homer,  yEschylus, 
Euripides,  and  Sophocles ;  and  he  may  have  known 
enough  Latin  to  have  read  Virgil.  Do  you  think  he 
counselled  his  converts  and  followers  to  read  CEdipus, 
Prometheus,  or  the  yEneid  }  He  turned  his  back  on 
that  noble  literature,  and  said  'for  I  determined  not  to 
know  anything  among  you  except  Jesus  Christ  and  him 
crucified.'  " 

"If  you  put  it  on  the  ground  of  there  being  no  time," 
replied  Wentworth,  "  I  would  ask  if  school-children 
have  not  a  reasonable  expectation  of  many  years  1  If 
you  should  carry  your  principle  to  its  logical  conclusion, 
you  would  have  them  spend  all  their  lives  in  prayer. 
Don't  you  think,  sir,  God  intended  that  men,  besides 
adoring  and  serving  him,  should  rejoice  in  this  beauti- 
ful world,  and  occupy  themselves  with  literature  and 
science,  and  with  cultivating  a  taste  for  the  fine  arts.'^ 
An  all-round  man  ;  one  who  is  learned,  accomplished, 
and  cheerful,  besides  being  pious  and  good  ;  is  he  not 
as  pleasing  in  his  sight  as  a  filthy  hermit  crcnicliing  in 
a  cave,  or  set  on  a  pillar  in  the  Thebaic!  ?  or  as  an 
ignorant  fanatic  at  a  camp-meeting.'*  I  don't  mean  to 
be  disrespectful.  If  God  is  the  Founder  of  the  sciences, 
the  Author  of  beauty  and  proportion,  the  Inspirer  of 
genius,  the  Fashioner  of  our  faculties,  how  could  he 
wish  us  to  check  philosophic  inquiry,  to  re]:)ross  the 
creative  instinct,  or  to  dry  up  the  sources  of  feeling  } 
Even  laughter  is  as  natural  as  crying,  and  a  great  deal 
more  wholesome." 


282  QUABBIN 

"  Your  propositions  have  a  broad  reach,"  said  the 
minister,  "and  I  should  not  like  to  assent  to  them  with- 
out consideration.  I  will  say,  however,  that  those  who 
realize  their  true  condition  in  a  dying  world,  exposed 
to  the  wrath  of  God,  will  seldom  be  moved  to  laughter." 

The  phrases  grated  harshly  in  Wentworth's  ears, 
but  he  shrank  from  touching  the  question  of  eternal 
punishment,  and  was  glad  to  return  to  St.  Paul. 

"I  think,"  said  he,  ''there  was  another  obvious  reason 
why  Paul  did  not  give  more  attention  to  Greek  poetry  : 
it  was  based  on  the  belief  in  the  fabled  divinities. 
What  to  us  are  Apollo,  Mars,  Diana,  and  Venus  ? 
Meftly  brilliant  fictions,  poetical  conceptions  ;  but  as 
gods  or  idols  they  are  non-existent.  What  prevents 
you  and  me  from  looking  at  an  image  of  Hermes,  like 
that  of  John  of  Bologna,  with  admiration  for  the  artist, 
and  with  a  clear  conscience  .-*  In  Paul's  time  it  would 
have  been  an  idolatrous  symbol.  He  would  be  careful 
not  to  give  countenance  to  a  superstition  which  had 
overrun  the  world,  and  which  was  dying  so  hard." 

"Our  ancestors,"  said  the  minister,  "had  some  scru- 
ples about  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics,  on  account  of 
their  serving  to  keep  alive  a  familiarity  with  false 
gods." 

"I  am  aware  of  that,"  said  Wentworth.  "It  is  to  be 
seen  in  Cotton  Mather  and  others  of  his  time  ;  but 
when  a  man  is  afraid  of  being  made  an  idolater  by 
reading  the  fables  of  early  ages,  I  should  think  him  in 
a  pitiable  state  of  imbecility." 

"The  divine  command  is  still  in  force,"  said  the 
minister. 

"  True,"  replied  Wentworth  ;  "  but  I  would  ask  you  if 
it  is  not  to  be  interpreted  in  its  sjiirit,  and  with   regard 


MISS    WICKS'S   TEA-PARTY  283 

to  the  light  of  to-day?  How  can  we  conceive  of  the 
Almighty  as  'jealous'  of  an  airy  nothing,  or  of  an 
artistic  image  in  marble  ?  We  do  not  deify  the  forces 
of  nature,  because  we  have  found  out  the  natural  laws. 
We  do  not  dread  witches,  as  poor  Cotton  Mather  did, 
for  we  know  that  occult  practices  are  impossible  and 
ridiculous.  Science  has  swept  the  earth,  sea,  and  sky 
clear  of  divinities  and  demons,  leaving  only  the  uni- 
verse of  matter,  and  God,  its  Creator.  But  we  are  not 
considering  the  question  put  by  Miss  Wicks.  I  was 
telling  her  I  felt  oppressed  and  hindered  by  the  want 
of  knowledge  on  the  part  of  my  pupils  of  the  com- 
mon facts  of  science,  and  of  general  ideas  of  literature. 
To  know  the  '  three  Rs '  may  enable  people  to  live,  but 
it  is  not  enough  to  make  them  men  and  women.  Don't 
you  think  there  is  need  here  for  a  library  t  for  more 
reading,  and  on  broader  lines  t'' 

"Yes,  and  for  the  grace  of  God,"  added  the  min- 
ister. 

"  But  does  his  grace,"  asked  Wentworth,  ''  dwell  by 
preference  with  ignorance  and  insensibility  t  It  has 
been  said  that  the  church  has  not  looked  kindly  upon 
any  literature  except  its  own,  nor  upon  science  not 
under  its  guidance.  It  seems  to  me  the  time  has  come 
when  neither  literature  nor  science  can  be  fettered.  It 
must  be  free  for  masters  to  teach  what  is  known  of  the 
earth,  of  the  people  that  have  lived  upon  it,  and  of  their 
ideas  and  works." 

*'  Religion,"  said  the  minister,  "  is  not  hostile  to 
science  when  taught  by  reverent  men  ;  nor  to  litera- 
ture, wMth  due  regard  to  other  necessary  instruction, 
and  to  the  preparation  for  the  world  to  come." 

"  If  a  man  should  discover  new  laws  of  light,"  said 


284  QUA  BE  IN 

Doctor  Fletcher,  ''or  a  way  of  utilizing  the  force  of 
electricity,  would  you  think  his  discovery  less  valuable 
because  he  happened  to  be  an  unbeliever?  " 

"  No,"  said  the  minister;  "but  suppose  he  were  an 
atheist  trying  to  show  that  the  universe  has  no  need  of 
God  ? " 

*'  Like  Laplace  with  his  '  La  Mecanique  Celeste,'  " 
su<r<jested  Lliza  Grant. 

"That  would  not  be  a  question  in  physics,  but  meta- 
physics," said  Went  worth.  "  In  geology,  for  instance, 
there  is  no  question  either  of  theism  or  atheism.  The 
geologist  simply  says  that  things  are  found  so,  and  in 
such  an  order.  It  seems  to  me  there  is  no  science 
which  may  not,  and  should  not,  be  taught  with  perfect 
reverence." 

Here  Mr.  Wicks  carpe  in,  apparently  tired  and  pre- 
occupied, and  the  conversation  ceased.  To  judge  by 
countenances,  the  doctor  and  Lois  Grant  had  sided 
with  Went  worth,  wdiile  Eliza  and  Miss  Wicks  inclined 
to  the  minister's  way  of  thinking. 

Soon  after  leaving  the  table.  Doctor  Fletcher  and 
Wentworth  took  their  leave.  The  face  of  the  latter 
was  still  glowing  with  excitement,  and  his  good-by  to 
Miss  Wicks  was  noticeable  for  its  mingling  of  ad- 
miration with  respect.  Again  the  sisters  exchanged 
glances. 

The  minister's  experience  was  novel  and  not  wholly 
pleasant.  It  was  the  first  time  that  any  one  in  the  vil- 
lage, in  which  his  supremacy  was  unquestioned,  had 
"withstood  him  to  his  face."  But  he  contented  him- 
self with  observing  that  Mr.  Wentworth  was  a  most 
enthusiastic  young  man. 

"How   I   should  like  to  have   such  a  teacher,"  said 


MISS    WICKS'S   TEA-PARTY  285 

Lois  Grant.  ''What  a  way  he  has!  Why,  he  fairly 
takes  you  up  and  carries  you  along  with  him." 

''No,"  said  Eliza,  half  aside;  "it  was  only  Herman 
Field  who  could  do  that." 

Miss  Wicks  heard  the  reminder  ;  and,  as  she  knew 
the  old  story  of  the  sprained  ankle,  there  was  a  mis- 
chievous laugh  between  her  and  Eliza.  She  said  softly 
to  Lois,  — 

"You  have  2i  penchant  for  schoolmasters." 

The  retort  came  in  a  twinkling,  — 

"  There  is  one,  I  am  sure,  who  has  a  pcncJiant  for 
you." 

"I  am  afraid,"  said  the  minister,  "he  is  too  much 
set  upon  learning.  I  do  not  say  puffed  up  by  it ;  too 
much  concerned  with  the  things  of  this  world.  We 
have  not  talked  of  doctrine,  but  trifles  are  often  signifi- 
cant. Did  vou  observe  that  he  said  'Paul,'  and  not 
'St.  Paul '  .-^  I  should  not  be  surprised  to  find  that  he 
is  a  Unitarian." 

Mr.  Wicks  was  looking  at  his  daughter  earnestly. 

Lois  Grant  plucked  up  courage  to  ask,  — 

"  Did  not  the  saint  speak  of  himself  simply  as  '  Paul, 
an  apostle '  .-^  I  don't  remember  that  any  one  is  called 
'saint'  in  the  New  Testament,  except  in  the  captions, 
and  I  suppose  those  may  be  modern." 

"It  is  a  matter  of  long  usage  in  the  church,"  said  the 
minister,  "and  is  not  important  except  as  an  indication. 
Ah  !  "  he  continued,  as  he  crossed  his  legs  and  tossed 
one  foot,  in  a  fit  of  abstraction,  "  these  high-mettled 
youths !  They  mistake  their  exuberant  spirits  for  a 
divine  afflatus  ;  their  ecstasies  upon  tlie  beauties  of 
nature  for  worship  ;  their  instinctive  sympathy  for 
Chi'istian  benevolence,  and  the  vague  yearnings  of  an 


2S6  QUABBIN 

imaginative  soul  for  communion  with  God.  All  things 
in  earth  are  beautiful  to  them,  when  we  know  that  sin 
and  death  have  entered  into  the  world  ;  that  there  is  no 
one  good,  not  one,  and  that  the  heart  is  deceitful  above 
all  things,  and  desperately  wicked.  Of  all  the  insidious 
forms  of  infidelity,  none  has  wrought  more  evil  than 
this  new  worship  of  nature,  —  as  if  it  were  anything  more 
than  the  garment  of  a  sinful  world,  soon  to  be  destroyed 
by  fire,  —  unless  it  be  the  twin  delusion  of  glorifying 
human  nature,  which  is  corruption."  After  a  pause  he 
went  on, — 

*'  The  plausible  phrases  of  the  modern  enemies  of 
Christ  have  seduced  many.  It  is  the  latest  invention 
of  the  great  enemy  of  souls.  And  to  think  that  the 
college  founded  by  our  pious  forefathers  for  the  pur- 
pose of  training  up  laborers  for  the  Lord's  vineyard, 
the  college  whose  motto  was  Christo  et  Ecclesia,  should 
have  fallen  into  the  hands  of  those  who  dethrone  Christ 
and  undermine  the  foundations  of  his  church  !  Ah,  my 
dear  young  friends,"  he  continued,  looking  solemnly  at 
their  attentive  faces,  **  better  to  have  the  heart  right 
toward  God,  than  to  shine  in  intellect,  or  to  glow  with 
an  unchastened  enthusiasm.  If  I  were  to  advise  a 
young  lady  upon  her  choice  of  a  partner  for  life,  I 
would  say  that  a  farmer  or  blacksmith  who  fears  God 
is  more  worthy  of  love  and  honor  than  the  most  brilliant 
of  the  irraduates  of  a  Christless  college." 

Mr.  Wicks's  looks  seemed  to  his  daughter  to  say, 
''Did  I  not  tell  you  so?" 


A    TALK  BY  THE  ROADSIDE  28/ 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

A    TALK    BY    THE    ROADSIDE 

One  Saturday  afternoon  David  Wentworth  set  out 
for  a  walk,  intending  to  climb  the  eastern  hill  and  de- 
scend  into  the  valley  beyond.     He  passed   the   semi- 
circle of  the  cove,  starred  with  lilies  ;  crossed  the  thin 
fallow  lands  that  were  cultivated  only  once  in  two  or 
three  years  ;  then  ascended  the  hillside  pasture,  bristling 
here    and    there  w^ith    patches    of    sturdy   huckleberry 
bushes,  and  soon  gained  the  ridge.     There  were  chop- 
pers at  work  felling  tall  trees  ;  and,  as  he  saw  one  that 
appeared   to   be   ready  to   fall,  he  waited.     Blow  after 
blow  was  struck  into  the  heart  of  the  trunk,  while  the 
chopper  cast  frequent  glances  at  the  quivering  upper 
boughs.     Soon  he  stepped  aside,  for  there  was  a  deeper 
thrill.     Then  came  a  wavering  motion,  an  awful  lean- 
ing, a  breathless  interval,  a  gathering  rush,  and  a  thun- 
dering   downfall    upon    the    leafy    ground,    while    the 
rebounding  branches  and  twigs  were  violently  agitated, 
like  the  limbs  of  a  giant  in  the  last  agony.     To  Went- 
worth the  sensation  was  like  seeing  the  fall  of  an  ox 
under  the  blow  of  a  butcher.      But  tlie  chopper  did  not 
appear  to  be  one  who  would  be  touched  by  sentiment, 
and  the   schoolmaster   merely   bowed   and   walked   on. 
Along   his   path  were  piles  of   corded  wood,  heaps  of 
chopped  twigs,  and  the  tracks  made  by  the  logs  as  they 


288  QUAE  BIN 

were  hauled  away.  The  clearing  was  thorough,  and 
the  hill  was  soon  to  have  a  bald  head. 

In  the  road  below  was  a  farmer  taking  the  dimensions 
of  a  number  of  logs  with  a  rule.  Wentworth  thought 
his  face  engaging,  in  spite  of  the  stern  lines  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  Salutes  were  always  exchanged 
in  Ouabbin,  and  it  was  considered  courteous  to  say  a 
friendly  word  in  passing.     Wentworth  asked,  — 

**  Is  it  your  woodland  that  I  have  just  crossed  —  up 
there  where  they  are  cutting  down  trees  } " 

"I  s'pose  'tis,"  said  the  farmer.  "Be  yeou  f'm 
Quabbin  } " 

*' Yes;  I  am  teaching  school  there." 

"Yeou  be,  be  yer  .-*  Haow  come  ye  ter  climb  the 
hill }  Didn't  ye  know  ye  could  git  raound  at  ary  eend 
on't.?" 

"  I  like  to  climb  a  hill ;  I  need  exercise.  But  I  don't 
much  like  to  see  a  fine  big  tree  cut  down." 

"  Nor  I  nuther." 

"  Why  do  you  have  them  cut  V 

"Got  ter  live  somehaow.  Raisin'  grain  don't  pay. 
'Less  we  sold  milk,  or  killed  a  critter  naow  an'  then,  we 
sh'd  starve.  Ye  see,  when  we  country  folks  run  be- 
hindhan',  we  hain't  no  chahnce  to  make  it  up  by  spec'- 
lation.  Ef  we  try  spec'lation,  we  air  sure  ter  git  took 
in.  Ther'  ain't  nothin'  for  us  but  hard  work  an'  elbow 
grease.  Some  years  ago  we  had  a  leetle  flurry  here, 
an'  every  man  an'  boy  thought  he  was  goin'  ter  be  rich 
by  raisin'  Morns  mnlticaulis.  I  don't  know  many 
larned  names,  but  we  all  come  ter  know  tJict.  Haow 
the  d'lusion  o^ot  started  I  never  'xacklv  knew.  'Twa'n't 
reason  nor  common-sense;  for  mulberry-trees  ain't 
good  for  nothin',  'ceptin'  to  raise  silkwums  ;  an'  every- 


A    TALK  BY   THE   ROADSIDE  289 

body  orter  know  this  ain't  the  climate  to  raise  'em. 
People  said  somebody  way  off  was  goin'  to  want  the 
trees  —  jest  ez  though  they  couldn't  be  raised  better 
where  they  was  wanted.  But  the  fever  was  up.  Folks 
paid  fifty  cents  a-piece  for  trees  not  so  big  ez  yer  leetle 
finger,  and  not  more'n  so  high.  They  used  these  to 
make  cuttin's  of,  and  put  'em  to  sprout  under  glass. 
Some  used  ol'  cowcum'er  frames,  and  some  built  hot- 
haouses,  an'  kep'  the  steam  up  days  an'  nights  an'  Sun- 
days. Some  o'  the  fust  ones  made,  'cause  they  sold 
trees  an'  cuttin's  tu  others  thet  was  startin'  in.  But 
by  an'  by  the  thing  fell  ez  flat  ez  a  cold  slap-jack. 
Yer  couldn't  give  away  a  tree.  Some  was  bit  pooty 
bad.  Even  sech  a  smart  man  ez  Wicks.  Ef  yer 
want  ter  make  him  mad,  y've  on'y  to  say,  '  Moms  uiul- 
ticaiilis'  " 

"The  experience  was  salutary,  though  painful,"  said 
Wentworth.  "  But  you  won't  have  any  more  oaks  to 
cut." 

**  Trew  'nough.  Them  air's  ben  growin'  sence  afore 
my  father's  time  ;  when  they're  gone,  we  sh'll  hev  to 
du  sunthin'  else." 

"People  used  to  live  without  cutting  off  their  trees." 
"Thet's  so  ;  but  folks  didn't  use  ter  treat  their  crops 
an'  airnin's  like  a  cowcumber,  —  eat  out  the  middle  and 
fling  away  both  eends." 

"  I  thought  the  people  about  here  were  economical." 
"So  they  be  —  some  on  'em  ;  an'  some  is  runnin'  to 
new  funnitoor  an'   carpets.      The   man   who   must    hev 
new  carpets  to  walk  on  when   he's  ter  hum  won't  stan' 
on  his  own  graass  ou'  doors  but  a  leetle  while." 

"  What  has  made  the  change  in  the  value  of  crops  }  " 
"Railroads,   an'   one  thing   'n   nuther.     I   kin  buv  a 


290  QUABBIN 

bushel  o'  corn  fcr  fifty  cents  that  I  couldn't  raise  fer 
less  'n  seventy-five." 

"  I  suppose  I  am  talking  to  Captain  Newcomb  ? " 

"Jcs'  so;  an'  yeou  air"  — 

*' Wentworth  is  my  name." 

'*  Oh,  vis.  I  heerd  somebody  tell  'baout  haow  yeou 
gin  it  tu  the  minister  t'other  day." 

"We  had  some  talk  about  books  and  reading,  —  all 
in  a  friendly  way." 

''They  say  yeou  gin  it  to  him,  all  the  same." 

"And  are  you  not  the  man  who  objected  to  giving 
so  much  to  the  missionaries  abroad,  while  there  was 
money  needed  for  schools  at  home  } " 

"  I  s'pose  I  be.  I  ain't  ashamed  on't.  But  I  hear 
the  minister  says  yeou  air  a  Unitarian." 

"  He  is  welcome  to  say  it.  I  have  never  talked  about 
doctrines,  and  I  don't  belong  to  any  church." 

"Air  yeou  f'm  Harvard  College,  daown  ther'  nex'  tu 
Boston  }  " 

"  No  ;  but  I  should  like  to  be  able  to  graduate  there." 

"  What  sh'd  make  the  minister  say  yeou  was  a 
Unitarian  V 

"  Unitarians  are  liberal,  and  he  probably  thought  I 
was  not  strict  enough  in  regard  to  the  books  that 
should  be  read." 

"Weren't  ther'  nothin'  said  'baout  the  Trinity  ner 
futur'  punishment  1 " 

"Nothing." 

"  I'm  kinder  sorry.  I  was  in  hopes  ter  hear  'baout 
it.  I  don't  take  no  stock  in  the  lake  o'  fire  an  brimstun 
myself." 

"  I  don't  think  such  discussions  do  anv  srood.  I  don't 
believe    in  any    punishment  that    is    endless,  for   that 


A    TALK  BY  THE  ROADSIDE  29 1 

seems  to  me  against  the  justice  of  God;  but  I  never 
argue  upon  the  subject.  My  notion  is  to  make  the 
b^st  use  of  life,  to  get  all  the  knowledge  possible,  to 
love  God,  be  cheerful,  and  do  all  the  good  I  can." 

"  A  man  who  doos  that,  he's  in  heaven  a'ready." 

''So  I  think." 

"Air  yeou  a-goin'  ter  preach  }  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  I  haven't  decided  what  I 
shall  do." 

"  'Pears  like  yeou  orter.  Yeour  talk  is  saound  sense. 
Folks  is  tired  o'  doctrine,  like  bein'  tired  o'  smoked 
an'  pickled  meat,  an'  want  sunthin'  fresh,  like  dewty 
an'  sunshine.  We've  bed  an  awfle  lot  o'  doctrine  fust  an' 
last  ;  an'  sometimes  the  more  doctrine  the  more  deviltry. 
What  I  mean  is,  the  more  doctrine  was  preached,  the 
more  the  wicked  pulled  t'other  way,  like  contr'y 
steers.  I've  often  thought  them  critters  might  a'  ben 
got  hold  on  by  the  right  man, — the  man  tnet'd  take 
'em  right." 

"  You  never  have  any  but  orthodox  preaching  here  I 
understand." 

"No,  'less  it's  Methodist  ;  an'  thet  don't  'maount  ter 
much.  Thcr'  ain't  but  'baout  a  dozen  on  'em  ;  an'  jes' 
as  soon's  they  git  a  leetle  'quainted  'ith  their  minister, 
off  he  goes.  I  dunno  ez  ary  Unitarian  or  Universallcr 
ever  preached  in  Ouabbin.  We  hear  on  'em  raound 
abaout,  like  fer-off  thunder  in  a  summer  arternoon,  but 
they  never  come  a-nigh." 

"I  think,  as  time  goes  on,  preaching  will  be  more 
practical.  Religion  is  a  matter  of  life  and  character. 
Christ  never  talked  theology,  and  if  you  could  have 
asked  his  disciples,  it  isn't  likely  that  any  two  of  them 
would  have  agreed  upon  a  system^  for  they  probabl\-  had 


292  QUABBIN 

none  ;  but  they  all  knew  what  Christ  wanted  them  to 
do  and  be." 

"  Wal,  young  man,  yeou're  tlie  man  tcr  du  it.  Yeou 
sh'd  take  up  preachin'.  Folks  is  tired  o'  'lection  an'  all 
thet  ;  many  hain't  the  head  to  un'erstan'  it.  But  ef 
they  kin  see  thet  they're  in  etarnity  right  naozu,  an' 
that  fiao7us  the  time  ter  du  good  an'  be  good,  they 
won't  wanter  go  a-mournin'  all  their  days,  so's  to  make 
ready  for  the  joyful  herearter." 

*'  But  in  spite  of  doctrinal  preaching,  or,  perhaps,  on 
account  of  it,  you  think  the  place  has  been  improving.^  " 

''  Land  sakes,  yis.  Ye  hain't  no  idee  what  a  state 
o'  things  ther'  was  when  I.  was  a  boy.  Ther'  was  some 
stiddy  men  an'  good  men,  but  ther'  was  an  awfle  lot  o' 
drunken,  fightin',  swearin'  fellers,  thet  made  the  village 
hot  a'most  every  time  th^y  come  into  't.  They  was 
alius  raisin'  Cain,  cuttin'  off  boss's  tails,  an'  pizenin' 
honest  dogs.  Oh,  things  is  quieted  daown.  Ther's  less 
h'ash  talk,  more  schoolin',  comf'tablerhaousen,  an'  nicer- 
lookin'  women  an'  childern.  Folks  go  an'  come,  sence 
the  railroad,  an'  they  bring  new  idees.  Ouabbin's 
a  leetle  taown,  an'  alius  will  be;  but  ther'  ain't  no 
place  so  lonely's  in  the  ol'  times." 

The  conversation  went  on  with  increased  animation, 
and  the  two  men,  strangers  until  that  day,  were  becom- 
ing friends.  Wentworth  was  always  pleased  to  talk 
with  a  straightforward  and  natural  man.  They  were 
leaning  against  the  fence,  and  the  farmer  was  showing 
him  how  he  calculated  the  contents  of  a  log. 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  in  the  sandy  road,  and 
Wentwortli,  looking  up,  saw  a  light  wagon  coming,  in 
which  were  Miss  Wicks  and  the  Grant  sisters.  They 
were  evidently  taking   a    drive  around    the    hill.      He 


A    TALK  BY  THE   ROADSIDE  293 

raised  his  hat  and  bowed,  and  was  civilly  greeted  in 
return.  When  they  had  passed,  Captain  Newcomb 
said,  — 

"A  gal  o'  good  sense,  thet  Miss  Wicks  is.  She  ain't 
no  gre't  beauty,  but  she  looks  good  'nough  tu  eat. 
She  won't  hev  no  gre't  fortin',  sech  ez  the  Grant  gals 
'11  git  some  day,  but  it's  my  'pinion  she  hain't'  her  ekal 
in  taown." 

*'You  think  well  of  the  Misses  Grant  also,  do  you 
not .? " 

''  Oh,  yis  ;  they're  smart  an'  well-eddicated,  an'  though 
folks  say  they  air  high-flyers,  I  don't  think  ther's  any- 
thin'  />'<'?'(^/abaout  'em.  They've  got  larnin'  an'  hev  seen 
life,  an'  air  goin'  to  hev  money  'nough  ter  du  what 
they  wanter  ;  so  I  don't  wonder  they  caper  over  Ouab- 
bin  ez  though  'twa'n't  o'  much  'caount.  The  youngest 
hed  a  love-scrape  a  year  or  two  ago  'ith  a  schoolmaster ; 
but  I  guess  she's  got  over  it,  an'  none  the  wuss.  But 
the  Wicks  gal's  the  one  for  uiy  money." 

''  Miss  Wicks  appears  to  be  all  you  sav." 

"Yis  ;  but  her  father's  curus.  He  jest  turns  raound 
the  minister  like  the  moon  raound  the  airth.  Ef  the 
minister  says,  'It's  fair  weather,'  why,  'tis  fair;  ef  he 
says,  '  Go  back  an'  git  an  umberell,'  why,  he  goes  back. 
Ez  long's  the  minister  stays  here,  an'  Mr.  Wicks  lives, 
no  feller  need  think  he  kin  git  that  girl  'thout  hcvin' 
the  minister  on  his  side." 

"  From  the  number  of  ancient  spinsters,  there  does 
not  seem  to  be  much  marrying  here." 

"  No  ;  we've  lost  aour  young  people,  an'  keep  a-losin' 
'em.  This  region  hez  gin'  its  life-blood  ter  the  West- 
ern country;  fust  ter  York  State,  then  ter  'llio,  Indi- 
anny,  Michigan,  an'  so  on.       'Stonishin',  when   I  think 


294  QUABBIN 

on't,  haow  they've  gone.  Eenamost  every  haouse  hez 
lost  its  sons  or  darters,  or  both.  No,  ther's  leetle 
nicrryin'  naow,  'cej)'  naow  an'  then  when  some  ol' 
gran'ther  merries  a  widder  in  caps  an'  false  hair.  But 
thet  ain't  Dicrryiti  !  It's  on'y  a  trick  to  save  usin'  a 
brass  warmin'-pan.  Sech  weddin's  ez  them  on'y  make 
me  feel  lonesome.  I  couldn't  go  to  one  on  'em  ;  'twould 
grip  me  by  the  throat.  I'd  ruther  go  tu  a  fun'rul,  an' 
done  "ith  it,  ef  so  I  could  noniernate  the  corpse." 

Two  chance  seeds  had  been  planted  in  Wentworth's 
mind,  whose  development  might  determine  his  future  ; 
one,  that  it  was,  perhaps,  his  duty  to  preach  the  gospel ; 
the  other,  that  Miss  Wicks  was  worth  consideration. 

*' Du  yeou  ever  go  a-fishin'  t  "  asked  the  farmer. 

''Seldom,"  said  Wentworth.  "I  walk  about  the 
country  whenever  I  can  :  it  refreshes  me,  soul  and 
body  ;  but  fishing  seems  to  me  a  rather  indolent  amuse- 
ment ;  and  then,  I  never  have  any  luck,  which  is  the 
same  as  to  say  I  have  no  skill." 

"  I  don't  fish  much,  nuther,  but  I  like  sometimes  to 
go  to  a  quiet,  shady  place  'long  with  some  sensible 
feller.  While  yeou  air  flingin'  a  line  yeou  don't  talk 
much;  only  a  word  naow  an'  then,  —  jest  the  notion 
of  the  minnit,  —  sunthin'  like  a  float  that  bobs  on 
the  wMter  when  an  idee  comes  along  ;  an'  the  pond,  an' 
the  trees,  an'  bushes  say  the  rest  on't.  Naow  ther's 
a  pond  not  more'n  a  mile  f'm  here,  an'  not  fer  f'm  the 
road  ;  an'  when  yeou  air  on  the  bank  yeou  can't  see  a 
haouse  nor  a  sign  of  a  livin'  creetur'.  Yeou'd  think 
yeou  was  ten  miles  in  the  woods  ;  jest  trees  an'  sky, 
an'  a  poorty  leetle  pond,  raound  ez  a  bowl,  so  still,  an' 
a'most  mournful-like,  cf  it  wa'n't  fer  the  water-lilies." 

"  You  make    me  wish    to    see    the   pond,"  said    the 


^■I 


A    TALK  BV   THE  ROADSIDE  295 

schoolmaster ;  "  and  I  like  your  notion  of  nature's 
filling  in  the  gaps  in  a  conversation.  Yes,  I  should 
like  to  go  with  you  some  good  day." 

*'  Take  the  fust  lowery  day,  when  it  ain't  actilly 
rainin.'  I've  poles  an'  lines,  an'  yeou  might  bring  'long 
a  couple  of  new  hooks.  Some  leetle  shaver  in  the 
village  will  git  us  the  shiners"  (minnows).  "We 
mayn't  ketch  pickerel,  but  we'll  hev  the  fun  of  tryin'." 

"  The  good  people  of  Quabbin  will  think  us  a  couple 
of  boys." 

"  I  alius  expect  to  be  a  boy  myself.  An'  ther's  no 
man  that  is  a  man,  who  can't  be  a  boy  sometimes." 


296  QUABBIN 


CHAPTER   XXX 

AN    ARRIVAL 

The  morning  stage-coach  from  the  "  Deepo "  (the 
nearest  railroad  station),  one  day  brought  to  the  village 
hotel  (styled  '*  tavern  "  no  longer)  a  passenger,  whose 
appearance  and  "kit"  excited  some  curiosity.  There 
were  straggling  groups  of  people  near  the  hotel  veranda 
and  about  the  post-office,  who,  besides  diligently  chew- 
ing tobacco,  had  the  responsible  duty  of  inspecting  the 
daily  arrivals,  and,  in  consequence,  felt  themselves 
relieved   from   other  work. 

The  stranger  was  of  medium  height,  and  wore  a  soft, 
gray,  broad-brimmed  hat,  a  brown  velvet  "cut-away" 
coat,  conspicuous  white  wristbands,  a  wide  linen  collar 
turned  down  over  a  poppy-colored  silk  necktie,  and  a 
full,  dark,  wavy  beard,  showing  gleams  of  red  in  the  sun. 
He  had  been  seated  beside  the  driver,  and  stepped 
down  lightly,  as  one  to  whom  an  alert  movement  was 
habitual.  His  features  were  pleasing,  and  the  expres- 
sion of  good-humor  in  his  brilliant  gray  eyes,  together 
with  the  smile  that  at  times  lifted  his  ruddy  mustaches 
and  disclosed  his  white  teeth,  arrested  general  atten- 
tion. This  person  was  a  problem  for  the  inspectors  on 
duty,  both  at  the  post-office  and  the  hotel. 

"Tell  ye  wliat,  Hi,"  said  a  lank  fellow  in  a  palm-leaf 
hat,  whose  dress  consisted  mainl}'  of   a  shady  woollen 


AN  ARRIVAL  297 

shirt,  and  a  pair  of  loose  trousers,  hoisted  almost  to  his 
armpits  by  leather  ''  galluses,"  the  ends  being  tucked 
into  the  faded  red  tops  of  a  pair  of  mouldy  looking 
boots,  *'  tell  ye  what,  thet's  a  curus  chap.  Jes'  look  at 
thet  baird  1  " 

**  Je-\vhillikins  !  "  exclaimed  the  second  inspector,  thus 
appealed  to,  —  a  sturdy  fellow  all  in  russet  from  his  hair 
to  his  boots.  *''Tis  a  baird,  an'  no  mistake.  Aiii  t  it 
nasty  1  I  sh'd  think  I  was  some  sort  o'  critter  or  other, 
ef  I  let  hair  grow  all  over  my  face  an'  mouth  like  thet 
air.  I  hain't  seen  nothin'  like  it,  'ceptin'  ol'  Lamson's, 
an'  hisn  was  white.  An',  I  say,  Obed,  jes'  look  at  thet 
velvet  jacket  !  " 

*'  Yis,"  said  Obed  ;  ^'  an'  thet  red  neckhan'kercher. 
A  pooty  lively  chap  he  must   be." 

**  What  d'ye  think  he  is?"  said  Hiram.  "A  circus- 
rider  }  " 

'*  Wal,  no  ;  I  sh'd  think  he's  more  likely  ter  be  a 
trillerkist  "  (ventriloquist),  ''  or  sleight-o'-hand  feller,  or 
one  o'  them  thet  crawls  inter  a  hot  oven,  and  drors  in 
arter  him  a  piece  o'  beef  to  roast." 

"Anyhow,  he's  some  sort  o'  showman.  An',  see 
ther' !  What's  the  driver  handin'  daown  .''  Some  sort 
o'  wooden  frame.     Some  o'  his  kit." 

''  An'  look,"  said  Obed,  *'  for  the  land's  sakes  !  at  thet 
air  white  umbereller  !  Big  'nough  fer  a  Sunday-skule 
picnic  on  a  rainy  day." 

*' An'  jes'  see,"  continued  Hiram,  "thet  all-fired  long 
handle  tu  it,  'ith  an  iron  spike  on  the  eend  !  Wal,  I 
vum,  thet's  the  beatenest  !  " 

"  An'  ther's  his  trunk,  an'  a  carpet-bag,  an'  a  m'hog- 
any  box  'itli  brass  handles.  Oh,  he's  some  kind  o' 
showman,  fer  sartin  !  " 


298  QUABBIN 

The  object  of  this  attention  disappeared  within  the 
hotel,  and  a  few  of  the  inspectors  gathered  to  examine 
his  **  kit."  The  wooden  frame  was  ''  a  stumper  "  for 
them  ;  they  could  not  make  out  the  use  of  it.  On  the 
trunk  were  the  initials  L.  A.  S.,  and  on  the  brass  plate 
of  the  mahogany  box  was  the  name  L.  A.  Stewart. 
The  name  was  unfamiliar  to  the  inspectors  ;  it  be- 
longed to  no  '*  trillerkist "  or  other  showman  they  had 
heard  of. 

Soon  from  an  upper  window  of  the  hotel  was  heard 
a  voice  calling  in  a  marked  New  York  accent,  '*  Waiter  ! 
waiter  !  won't  some  one  answer  the  bell  ?  I  want  a 
pitcher  of  water,  and  to  have  my  boots  brushed." 

The  last  was  an  unheard-of  request,  and  caused 
much  unfavorable  comment  upon  the  veranda  below  : 
"Couldn't  he  bresh  his  own  boots  ?  "  —  "  Wonder  who 
was  his  nigger  ter  hum  .-^ "  and  other  less  compliment- 
ary remarks.  Then  the  opinion  began  to  take  form 
that  this  "■  'ristercrat  who  wanted  so  much  waitin'  on  " 
was,  maybe,  ''  a  lord,  or  some  other  kind  o'  furriner," 
and  there  was  intense  curiosity  to  know  what  had 
brought  him  to  Quabbin. 

The  excitement  was  somewhat  calmed  when  the 
schoolmaster  was  seen  approaching  the  hotel.  David 
Wentworth,  who  had  been  sent  for,  came  to  call  on  his 
old  friend  and  sometime  classmate,  Louis  Stewart,  and 
there  was  a  joyous  meeting.  Stewart  was  a  landscape 
painter,  and  had  brought  his  easel  and  a  box  of  colors, 
to  do  some  sketching.  His  sister  had  been  a  friend  of 
Miss  Wicks,  and  of  Eliza  and  Lois  Grant  at  school, 
and  had  recently  been  visiting  them.  The  two  friends 
m.ade  a  brief  call  at  both  houses,  and  were  warmly 
received.     All  the  young  ladies  were  impressed  by  the 


AN  ARRIVAL  299 

painter's  manners  and  presence.  He  had  the  air  which 
should  belong  to  the  best  society,  and  his  conversation 
though  lively  was  unobtrusive.  He  quite  outshone 
Wentworth  on  account  of  his  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  familiarity  with  men  of  distinction  ;  although,  per- 
haps, in  intellect  and  training,  as  well  as  in  certain 
ideal  traits  of  character,  the  schoolmaster  was  the 
superior.  But  Stewart's  joyous  nature,  frank  smile, 
and  unfailing  tact,  were  irresistible.  Wentworth  had 
the  manners  of  a  student,  and  his  habitual  life  was 
more  interior,  so  that  he  was  often  silent  when  a  man 
of  the  world  would  have  seen  and  improved  oppor- 
tunities. 

If  Stewart  felt  an  inclination  toward  any  of  the 
ladies,  it  was  not  shown  ;  but  Wentworth  was  trans- 
parent as  a  sunbeam,  and  his  devotion  to  Miss  Wicks 
was  always  evident.  It  was  clear  that  it  was  thought 
much  to  the  credit  of  the  schoolmaster  that  he  had 
such  a  brilliant  friend.  There  was  much  talk  of  scen- 
ery, and  plans  were  formed  to  take  the  artist  to  favorite 
spots.  Promising  to  return  in  the  evening,  the  young 
men  took  leave. 

After  the  customary  early  dinner  at  the  hotel,  the 
two  friends  went  up  Great  Ouabbin,  the  schoolmaster 
being  the  guide.  On  the  way,  as  they  paused  to  look 
back,  the  painter's  practised  eye  took  in  the  calm 
impression  of  the  valley  with  the  village  and  river, 
the  graceful  curves  of  the  cove,  and  the  outlines  of 
the  so-called  mountains.  The  autumn  colors  were  just 
beginning  to  glow,  and  the  landscape  was  as  warm  as  a 
picture  by  Cuyp.  At  the  top  they  roamed  over  the 
broad  convexity,  among  the  surprised  cattle  that  ran 
and  capered,  and  tlien  stopped  and  snorted.      Now  they 


300  QUABBIX 

were  looking  at   the  blue  cloud  which  was  Monadnock, 

—  now  at  the  black  and  strongly  marked  Holyoke 
range,  and  toward  the  dim  cone  of  Sugar  Loaf,  and  now 
to  the  sharp  outline  of  a  distant  hill  in  Connecticut. 

*'  A  delightful  spot,"  said  Stewart.  "  I  could  enjoy 
this  air  and  this  prospect  for  hours." 

"I  have  always  felt  here  a  singular  repose,"  said 
Wentworth,  '*  a  repose  that  is  in  effect  a  quiet  exalta- 
tion, a  pleasing  loneliness,  away  from  earthly  affairs, 
and  from  black  care." 

"If  it  were  new  to  you,  it  would  not  seem  reposeful. 
The  breadth  of  view,  —  over  a  hundred  miles,  I  judge, 

—  is  glorious,  uplifting.  It  is  not  the  height  of  this 
hill,  for  it  cannot  be  more  than  eight  hundred  feet,  but 
its  fortunate  position  which  makes  the  grand  outlook. 
Our  eyes  sweep  over  what  seems  like  a  vast  plain  on 
which  young  mountains  have  sprouted,  and  are  just 
heaving  up  their  round  heads.  No,  this  is  not  a  place 
for  repose.  My  thoughts  rise  from  this  plateau,  hover 
over  all  those  billowy  ranges  and  deep-sunk  valleys,  and 
bathe  in  that  mist  of  gold  in  the  west.  I  could  do 
anything  here  but  paint.  This  scene  could  be  repre- 
sented only  in  a  panorama." 

They  walked  down  the  hill  toward  Crombie's  bridge, 
and  then  sauntered  along  the  river. 

"Now,  here  I  could  paint,"  said  Stewart  ;  "here  are 
several  points  of  view,  —  that  quaint  old  timber  bridge, 
the  glossy  black  water,  which  looks  evil  enough  to  have 
drowned  many  a  thoughtless  swimmer,  the  frayed  cur- 
tain of  willows  and  alders  ;  and  then,  looking  the  other 
way,  that  dense  heap  of  tree-tops,  and  the  white  spire 
over  them  ;  yes,  I  could  make  some  pictures  here." 

"A   little   farther    down   stream,"   said   Wentworth, 


AN  ARRIVAL  301 

"  there  is  a  place  where  the  river  has  left  its  old  bed 
and  cut  a  new  channel ;  and  there  is  a  scries  of  curv- 
ing embankments,  one  stretching  out  beyond  the  other, 
and  always  returning.  Seen  from  below,  they  are  like 
grass-grown  fortifications  ;  from  above  they  are  simply 
rings  of  excavations.  Nature  is  smoothing  them  over, 
but  will  not  soon  obliterate  them.  There  are  some 
rather  fine  trees  too.     We  will  see  them  some  day." 

''The  factories  are  ugly,"  said  Stewart,  looking  to- 
ward the  village,  "•  but  the  little  river  is  pretty  ;  and  the 
May  of  the  land'  is  charming.  In  early  times,  when 
the  region  was  wilder,  it  must  have  been  beautiful." 

"  I  wish  you  would  set  up  your  easel  somewhere  in 
this  meadow." 

*'  I  will ;  but  first  I  want  to  look  the  ground  over. 
Has  any  one  sketched  here.''  " 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.  It  is  an  out-of-the-way  place. 
And  besides,  artists  generally  look  for  more  contrasts 
or  strong  effects." 

"■  I  know  that  is  the  tendency  ;  but  an  artist  ought  to 
find  use  for  all  his  power  and  skill  in  painting  even  the 
simplest  scene.  There  isn't  a  spot  I  walk  over  when  I 
am  in  the  country,  not  a  tree  or  bush,  not  a  living 
creature,  in  which  there  is  not  something  that  appeals 
to  me." 

*'  I  am  not  an  artist ;  but  an  untaught  man,  perhaps, 
may  have  a  similar  feeling.  I  see  men  with  heavy 
boots  trampling  upon  bunches  of  green  and  gold  moss, 
or  on  leaves  whose  veins  and  colors  are  bevond  art, 
and  with  no  more  thought  of  the  delicate  things  they 
are  crushing  than  an  ox.  Leaves  must  be  trodden  on, 
but,  apart  from  that,  there  is  seldom  any  sense  of  the 
sacredness  of  God's  work." 


302  .  QUABBIX 

''  People  suppose  that  beauty  is  to  be  sought  for  in 
some  far-away  region,  and  under  exceptional  conditions  ; 
when  it  is  at  their  own  doors,  and  wherever  they  go. 
If  they  really  loved  nature,  this  would  not  be  so." 

"Love  of  nature  does  not  seem  to  be  common  in  the 
country,  —  not  hereabouts.  As  for  city  people,  I  be- 
lieve it  is  mostly  the  novelty  that  appeals  to  them  ; 
while  the  feeling  is  fresh  they  are  exalted,  but  unless 
it  has  some  root  in  the  heart  it  soon  withers." 

''  The  chatter  of  fashionable  people  about  the  loveli- 
ness of  rural  scenes  never  touches  me,"  said  the  painter. 
"  I  prefer  the  frank  brutality  of  a  countryman,  who,  if 
he  feels  nothing,  pretends  nothing." 

*'*  Frank  brutality'  exactly  expresses  the  state  of 
things  here,"  said  Wentworth,  '*  both  as  to  nature  and 
art.  I  have  seen  only  one  picture  in  Ouabbin  that 
could  be  called  artistic  ;  and  that  is  the  portrait  of  a 
retired  China  merchant,  a  man  of  evident  distinction. 
It  is  well  painted,  and  mellow  as  an  autumn  sunset. 
There  isn't  another  picture  in  town,  except  one  of  an 
old  doctor,  that  you  would  look  at  ten  seconds.  There 
are  a  few  engravings,  commonly  heads  of  famous 
preachers  or  other  public  men.  One  that  is  often  seen 
is  a  grim  portrait  of  Caleb  Strong,  of  Northampton,  a 
former  governor.  Most  frequently  you  will  see  in  the 
parlor,  among  wrought  *  sam})lers  '  and  funereal  urns, 
various-colored  lithographs.  Consider,  if  you  can,  what 
that  means, — a  coarse,  ill-drawn  picture  of  a  general  on 
a  prancing  horse,  or  of  a  girl  with  a  kitten  or  puppy, 
or  a  mother  with  a  child,  or  the  like  ;  and  then  the 
color! — crude  red  and  blue,  put  on  thick,  as  children 
daub  j)icture-books.  You  will  see  such  atrocities  in 
the  houses  of  worthy  people  who  ought  to  know  better. 


AN  ARRIVAL  303 

But  there  is  a  lower  deep.  Image  venders  have  found 
their  way  to  this  Arcadia,  or  Boeotia,  and  liave  brought, 
not  the  pretty  figurines,  the  little  Bacchuses,  Venuses, 
and  Mercuries,  —  those  would  be  improper,  and  perhaps 
idolatrous, — but  plaster  vases  of  plaster  fruits,  rudely 
colored  ;  a  vivid  green  apple,  a  yellow  and  red  peach, 
and  a  bunch  of  purple  grapes,  stuck  in  a  heap  upon  the 
ghastly  white  plaster.  It  makes  one  feel  ill  to  think 
of  it." 

"And  yet,"  said  the  painter,  ''while  I  sympathize  in 
vour  distress,  all  this  shows  the  existence  of  a  lono-ins: 
for  beauty,  —  in  color,  at  least,  —  and  a  groping  toward 
the  light ;  just  as  the  flower-pot  at  the  sewing-girl's 
window,  and  the  poppies  and  pinks  by  the  laborer's 
door,  show  a  yearning  for  something  beyond  the  satis- 
faction of  primary  wants.  There  is  a  foothold  for  art 
everywhere." 

"  Since  people  of  taste  generally  agree  about  forms 
and  colors,"  said  Wentworth  meditatively,  ''  I  wonder 
if  the  arrangements  and  harmonies  of  nature  are  abso- 
lutely beautiful  in  themselves,  or  if  they  seem  beautiful 
because  we  have  become  accustomed  to  them,  and 
educated  by  them  1  The  richness  of  color  in  those 
maples,  with  the  ground  of  green  grass,  and  with  the 
blue  sky  and  wliite  clouds,  seem  to  our  e}'es  a  per- 
fect whole  ;  but  should  we  have  thought  the  arrange- 
ment ugly  or  incomplete,  if  it  had  been  otherwise 
predestined  }  " 

"  I  will  answer  you  with  a  paral)le  that  I  have  long 
]"i:ul  in  mind,"  said  Stewart.  "There  was  a  i-ace  "of 
l)cings  that  lix'cd  liabitually  in  a  dim  light,  and  fountl 
themselves  well  nurtured  and  content.  The  surface  of 
their  world  w^as   smooth,  and    of  a   uniform   dark    red. 


304  QUABBIN' 

Slight  vegetation  was  apparent,  except  in  tracts  where 
grew  tall,  silky  bushes,  very  frail  and  easily  swayed. 
Some  of  these  bushes  appeared  as  tall  as  trees,  but  all 
had  the  same  slender  stalks,  as  if  they  were  mere  fila- 
ments leaninir  on  each  other.  The  colors  of  this  vesfe- 
tation  ranged  from  silver  gray  to  turquoise  and  beryl. 
The  combination  of  the  universal  red  ground  with  the 
gray,  green,  and  blue  shrubbery,  whether  in  the  forests 
and  jungles,  or  in  the  more  open  spaces,  was  very 
striking.  The  inhabitants  thought  it  perfect  and  pre- 
destined, and  their  philosophers  taught  that  the  exist- 
ence of  a  Creator  was  proven  by  the  fact  of  this 
harmonious  correspondence,  which  could  not  have  come 
about  by  chance,  and  which,  they  said,  was  absolute, 
and  founded  in  the  nature  of  things.  They  could  not 
conceive  of  any  other  colors.  Their  artists  also  praised 
the  frail,  swaying,  silky  shrubbery,  and  found  in  it  a 
new  proof  of  wise  design. 

**  Their  world  was  pervaded  by  a  peculiar  odor,  not 
wholly  unpleasant ;  it  was  in  themselves,  the  soil,  pro- 
ductions, and  atmosphere.  They  professed  they  could 
not  imagine  a  world  without  this  odor  ;  and  this  was 
another  proof  of  goodness  and  wisdom. 

"  Their  world  was  of  some  extent,  and  few  had  trav- 
elled over  it  ;  where  they  were  born,  there  within  narrow 
limits  they  lived  and  died.  But  the  most  adventur- 
ous had  never  found  rocks  or  caverns,  or  streams  of 
water.  It  was  wonderfully  uniform,  and  was  made 
to  be  the  home  of  millions,  —  the  best  of  possible 
worlds  for  material  uses,  and  for  the  divine  sense  of 
beauty. 

'*  Their  happiness  long  continued  under  their  dim 
light,    with    their   fore-ordained    harmonies    of    color, 


AjV  arrival  305 

and  with  the  odor  which  was  a  part  of  the  system 
of  thinsfs. 

"  But  one  day  there  came  a  flash  that  lightened  the 
whole  globe,  then  an  earthquake  shock,  and  a  cata- 
clysm. Trees  and  shrubs  and  clinging  thousands  were 
swept  away  in  universal  ruin. 

"  The  grocer's  boy  had  opened  a  wire  gauze  safe, 
and  scraped  a  cheese." 

"  I  see  your  drift,"  said  Wentworth.  *'  You  think 
we  have  no  faculty  of  independent  judgment } " 

"  As  much  as  a  nursing  child  has  to  pronounce  upon 
the  flavor  and  bouquet  of  its  mother's  milk." 

''  Your  parable  is  hard  upon  Paley." 

"■  That  is  merely  incidental.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
contrast  between  our  assumption  of  absolute  judgment 
and  our  real  helplessness.  We  are  a  part  of  the  ar- 
rangement, and  cannot  get  away,  any  more  than  we 
can  jump  from  the  globe  into  space.  We  talk  of 
'creation,'  and  have  never  drawn  an  original  line.  The 
genius  is  the  fortunate  fellow  who  comes  upon  things, 
—  finds  them.      Forests  and  caverns  tau^'ht  us   archi- 

o 

tecture  ;  frost-work,  flowers,  fruit,  shells,  and  other 
natural  objects,  have  suggested  ornament  ;  and  the 
earth  and  sky  furnish  our  palette  of  colors.  We  com- 
bine pre-existing  elements,  and  never  conceive  anything 
new.  These  thoughts,  in  some  pedant's  phrase,  arc 
obviosities  ;  and  I  bring  them  up  only  to  show  that  our 
appreciation  of  form  and  color  is  something  inevitable. 
Therefore  anything  which  repels  the  eye  of  a  sane, 
cultivated,  observing  man  is  certain  to  be  wrong.  If, 
by  and  by,  chemistry  should  produce  new  tones  of 
colors  that  sting  the  eye,  —  some  trenchant  red,  or 
piercing  blue,  or  remorseless  green,  —  the  vulgar  might 


306  QUABBIN 

be  attracted,  but  tbe  wise  would  shun  them.  The 
color  you  do  not  find  in  nature  is  false  in  art." 

"Your  statement,"  said  Wentworth,  ''may  be  con- 
sidered an  artist's  confession  of  faith,  and  it  has  sug- 
gested, perhaps  vaguely,  several  analogies.  In  medicine, 
leading  men  are  giving  up  the  coarse  and  violent  reme- 
dies called  'heroics,'  and  are  relying  more  upon  the 
curative  power  of  nature.  As  air  and  water  make 
climate,  it  is  seen  that  slight  and  impalpable  things  are 
all  powerful  to  build  up  or  to  undermine  bodily  health. 
In  steering  a  boat  the  merest  touch  upon  the  tiller 
alters  the  course.  In  following  nature  man  imitates 
the  Eternal  Wisdom,  which  never  expends  the  least 
surplus  of  energy.  And  in  theology  there  is  a  deep 
movement,  a  disposition  to  return  to  nature,  a  new 
faith  in  human  possibilities.  There  is  a  growing  dis- 
trust of  metaphysical  subtilties,  and  of  religious  systems 
laid  out  for  demonstration,  like  theorems  in  geometry ; 
of  attempts  at  the  analysis  of  the  first  cause,  and 
of  the  geography  of  the  moral  universe,  or  at  settling 
the  future  of  all  human  souls.  As  we  have  what  we 
think  are  natural  sentiments  of  justice,  we  ought  not 
to  accept  as  true  a  scheme  of  the  moral  government  of 
the  world  which  outrages  those  sentiments.  This  sen- 
timent of  justice  is  the  witness  of  God  in  our  hearts, 
and  it  cannot  be  wrong  or  rash  to  trust  it  ;  for  nature 
must  be  one  with  God." 

Stewart  looked  at  his  friend  with  some  curiosity,  and 
saw  by  his  earnest  manner  that  there  was  something 
serious  going  on  within. 

They  had  passed  the  village,  and  were  on  the  curves 
near  the  cove.  The  western  sun  was  touching  the 
spire,  making  its  vane  a  gleam,  and   kindling  all  the 


AN  ARRIVAL  "      307 

maples  to  a  blaze.  The  sheet  of  water  above  the  dam 
showed  fair  reflections,  and  the  hills  were  bricrht  ajzainst 
the  sky. 

*'We  had  better  return,"  said  Wentworth.  ''Late 
in  the  day  it  becomes  chilly  here." 

"Well,"  said  Stewart,  ''you  can  call  for  me  after 
supper,  and  we  will  go  to  see  the  girls." 


508  OWABBIJV 


CHAPTER   XXXI 

AN    EXCURSION 

The  prospect  from  the  Wilson  place,  on  the  western 
side  of  the  Great  Hill,  was  reputed  to  be  the  finest  in 
the  region.  It  was  distant,  and  the  road  was  hilly  and 
rough,  but  all  who  visited  it  came  back  in  raptures. 
David  Went  worth  had  finished  his  school,  and  was  on 
the  point  of  returning  to  college;  but  he  gladly  stayed 
on  a  few  days  to  be  with  his  friend  Stewart.  A  party 
was  made  up  for  an  excursion  to  the  famous  spot,  con- 
sisting of  Miss  Wicks,  the  Grant  sisters,  the  painter, 
and  the  schoolmaster,  and  a  newly  arrived  theological 
student,  James  Stowe,  who  was  Mr.  Grant's  guest.  A 
light  stage-coach  with  a  pair  of  horses  was  procured, 
and  a  stable  boy  was  engaged  as  driver.  The  vehicle 
was  not  luxurious,  but  was  comfortable,  and  the  leathern 
curtains  were  rolled  up,  to  allow  a  view  in  all  directions. 

It  was  a  fine  day  in  September,  and  though  the  sun 
was  warm  the  air  was  cool  and  bracing.  The  forests 
were  still  mostly  green,  though  showing  here  and  there 
some  brilliant  spot  of  red  or  yellow.  The  maples  along 
the  roadside  were  in  their  glory  of  mingled  colors  ; 
golden-rod  flamed  in  the  pastures,  and  deep  red  spikes 
of  sumach  were  seen  in  the  fence  corners.  Cattle  were 
crop]:)ing  the  late  grass  in  the  meadows,  while  red 
pumpkins  lay  basking  between  the  rows  of  Indian  corn, 


AN  EXCURSION  309 

whose  stiffening  leaves  gave  a  papery  rustle  as  the  light 
airs  lifted  them.  Crows  gathered  in  the  oaks  in  search 
of  acorns,  and  now  and  then  swept  down  with  harsh 
cries  upon  the  cornfields.  Blue  jays  were  screaming  in 
hazel  bushes,  and  blackbirds  were  merry  and  busy. 

After  passing  the  West  Branch  the  ascent  was  steady 
for  several  miles,  and  the  progress  was  slow.  Farm 
succeeded  farm,  where  men  or  boys  w^ere  digging  pota- 
toes, or  cutting  corn-stalks  for  fodder,  and  stopped  to 
see  the  gay -looking  party  go  by.  Houses  looked  poorer, 
and  yards  less  tidy,  as  they  ascended.  At  the  doors 
were  rows  of  milk-pans  in  the  sun,  and  under  the  win- 
dows were  strings  of  sliced  apples  or  of  red  peppers. 
There  were  no  signs  of  squalor  or  suffering,  but  life 
was  evidently  between  narrow  lines,  and  little  enlivened 
by  gayety. 

When  the  back-bone  of  the  hill  was  crossed,  the 
coach  stopped  where  the  road  began  to  descend,  and 
the  party  got  out  to  walk.  The  farm  they  were  to 
visit  was  off  the  highway  at  the  left,  and  the  road  lead- 
ing to  it  was  not  considered  safe.  However,  the  coach 
followed  slowly  and  joltingly,  and  reached  the  spot 
without  an  overturn. 

While  walking  toward  the  pasture,  Stewart  said  to 
Wentworth  apart,  ''  What  sort  of  a  fellow^  is  this  Stowe  } 
He  looks  bilious  and  sullen.  Divinity,  I  think  you 
said.  Is  it  a  domestic  parson,  or  a  missionary  for 
export  .''  " 

"I  know  scarcely  anything  of  him,"  replied  Went- 
worth. ''  I  believe  he  is  in  the  last  vear  of  his  course, 
and  is  already  licensed  to  preach.  He  seems  to  follow 
our  friend  Lois  with  his  eyes." 

"We  will  sec  to  that,"  said  Stewart  in  his  gay  and 


3IO  QUABBIN 

triumphant  way.  "  I  don't  want  to  lose  a  prize,  —  if  it 
should  be  a  prize  ;  and  I  think  a  man  might  easily  get 
the  better  of  that  gloomy  fellow." 

Wentworth  fell  back  to  talk  with  Miss  Wicks ; 
Stewart  succeeded  in  detaching  Lois, — not  without 
some  skilful  tactics,  —  and  the  discomfited  divinity  stu- 
dent followed  with  Eliza.  When  they  reached  the 
spot,  all  sat  down  to  enjoy  the  prospect.  The  driver 
had  hitched  the  horses  to  a  fence,  and  followed  on  with 
the  luncheon-basket,  volunteering  to  point  out  the 
places  in  sight. 

'' Thet  nighcst  taown  ther'  is  Ahmust  (Amherst). 
Yeou  kin  see  the  colleges  on  the  rise  o'  land,  jest  a 
leetle  Saouth.  Daown  yander  is  Maovmt  Holyoke  ; 
yeou  kin  see  the  haouse  on  top  on't.  Jest  across  f'm 
ther'  is  Ol'  Hadley,  wher'  the  river  makes  an  ox-bow. 
In  among  them  woods  is  Northampton.  Yeou  kin  see 
tew  steeples.  Furder  on  is  the  Berksher  Hills.  It's 
all  kinder  mixt  they  way,  part  woodsy  an'  part  misty. 
Thet  air  hill  up  yander,  all  blue  an'  pupple,  is  Sugar 
Loaf.  Ef  'twa'n't  fer  the  mist  you'd  see  a  lot  more 
taowns.  It's  fust-rate  land  all  the  wav  f'm  Sunderland 
daown  ter  the  p'int  of  Holyoke.  Jest  ez  pooty's  ever 
yeou  see.  Raise  lots  o'  broomcorn.  But  to  see  it  all 
ther's  a  better  place  by  yander  rock." 

Here  the  volunteer  cicerone  was  thanked,  and  allowed 
to  retire. 

"When  we  look  across  this  beautiful  basin,"  said 
Wentworth,  "and  consider  the  wide  space  that  has  been 
affected  by  the  river  in  past  ages,  we  try  to  think  what 
a  mighty  flood  it  must  have  been,  and  what  a  time 
must  have  been  required  to  cut  its  way  between  Tom 
and  Holyoke,  and  spread  out  the  alluvial  soil." 


AN  EXCURSION  3  1 1 

"  The  aspect  of  to-day  is  what  interests  me,"  said 
Stewart.  **  For  a  painter,  the  earth  is  like  a  belle,  — 
its  beauty  is  only  skin-deep.  And  then,  Wentworth, 
some  of  us  may  be  tender-footed  on  the  antiquity  of 
the  earth."     And  he  smiled  at  Mr.   Stowe. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Stowe  with  solemnity;  "religion 
accepts  the  facts  of  geology,  but  without  admitting  the 
necessity  of  such  enormous  periods  of  formation.  God 
could  have  created  the  world  in  one  condition  or  in 
another.  He  could  have  called  it  into  being  with  all 
its  strata  just  as  they  are." 

"  God  could  have  done  manv  thinsfs  he  has  not  chosen 

J  o 

to  do,"  said  Wentworth.  "Geology  shows  what  he  has 
done.  And  as  to  creation,  let  me  ask  you  if  in  the 
Hebrew  there  is  any  notion  of  God's  callins^  the  world 
out  of  nothing  t  I  don't  know  Hebrew  ;  but  I  have  been 
told  that  in  the  passage,  '  In  the  beginning,'  etc.,  the 
word  '  created  '  signifies  'formed,'  and  that  creation,  as 
understood  in  theology,  is  the  conception  of  a  later 
age." 

"  Don't  answer  him,"  said  Stewart,  laughing.  "This 
picnic  isn't  going  to  be  turned  into  a  Scripture  debating- 
society."  Then  calling  the  driver,  he  sent  him  to  the 
house  for  a  teakettle  of  boiling  water.  "  And  now, 
Wentworth,"  he  continued,  "you  and  Mr.  Stowe  can 
spread  out  the  luncheon  ;  say,  some  stratifications  of 
bread,<with  interstices  of  butter,  and  some  bowlders  in 
the  shape  of  eggs.  Divide  that  pie  into  six  isosceles 
triangles  with  curved  bases,  and  cut  down  that  fruit- 
cake so  as  to  exhibit  the  conglomerate  elements,  allow- 
ing sixty  degrees  of  the  circumference  in  each  segment." 

Wentworth  smiled  at  the  timely  rebuke.  The  bas- 
ket was  opened,  a  cloth  was  spread  on  the  grass,  and. 


312  QUABBIN 

by  the  help  of  the  young  ladies,  the  luncheon  was  taste- 
fully laid  out.  The  youth  soon  returned  with  the  hot 
water,  Miss  Wicks  infused  some  of  her  fragrant  tea,  and 
the  party  sat  down  to  enjoy  the  repast. 

Then  Stewart  produced  a  small  canvas  and  arranged 
for  it  a  support  with  sticks,  in  order  to  make  a  rough 
sketch  of  the  central  part  of  the  landscape. 

Mr.  Stowe,  who  had  been  lingering  near,  endeavoring 
to  enfrao:e  Lois  Grant  in  conversation,  su2:£rested  that 
there  would  probably  be  a  better  view  from  the  pro- 
jecting point  on  the  hillside  mentioned  by  the  driver, 
which  was  a  little  distance  farther ;  but  when  she 
caught  an  expressive  look  from  the  painter,  she  sat 
down  by  his  side,  saying,  "  We  can  come  here  again  for 
this  view,  but  there  will  not  be  an  artist  with  us,  and  I 
am  curious  to  see  how  a  sketch  is  made." 

The  easy  way  in  which  she  shook  off  the  attentions 
of  the  divinity  student,  and  devoted  herself  to  the 
painter,  was  amusing  to  all  but  one  person.  If  Stowe's 
self  love  was  touched  by  the  repulse,  he  had  too  much 
pride  to  show  it,  and  he  began  talking  with  Eliza  as  if 
nothing  had  happened. 

Said  Wentworth  to  Miss  Wicks,  "The  young  preacher 
would  have  preferred  Rachel,  but,  if  he  cannot  get  her, 
he  will  take  up  with  Leah.  After  all,  they  should  be 
equally  attractive  ;  they  are  both  beautiful,  and  they 
will    inherit   alike."  » 

*'  Do  you  think  he  has  mercenary  motives } " 

"■  Clergymen,  as  well  as  other  people,  marry  rich 
wives  when  they  can,  and  that  he  has  come  here  with 
matrimonial  intentions  is  clear  enough." 

"I  suppose  every  minister  needs  a  wife  to  help  him 
in  his  work,"  said  Miss  Wicks. 


AN  EXCURSION'  313 

*'  And  he  would  not  find  a  rich  father-in-law  an 
obstacle,"  said  Wentworth. 

"  Does  a  painter  like  Mr.  Stewart  have  a  good  posi- 
tion in  society?"  asked  Miss  Wicks  with  some  hesi- 
tation.    *' I  mean  a  painter  who  lives  by  his  work." 

''  Yes,  the  best,  —  among  liberal-minded  people.  If 
a  painter  is  successful,  and  a  man  of  good  character, 
there  is  nothing  equivocal  about  his  position,  either  in 
regard  to  income  or  social  consideration." 

"  Isn't  his  dress  just  a  little  peculiar  .^  " 

"Perhaps  so;  but  artists  are  allowed  to  dress  as 
they  please  ;  while  a  financier  or  a  lawyer  who  should 
permit  himself  to  wear  a  velvet  coat  or  red  necktie 
would  infallibly  lose  credit.  I  knov/  a  man  of  character 
and  solid  means,  who  was  lately  refused  a  discount  at 
a  Boston  bank  because  he  wore  mustaches.  The 
cashier  bluntly  told  him  the  reason.  In  the  world  of 
business  there  is  no  tolerance  for  eccentricity  ;  while 
an  artist  is  a  'chartered  libertine,' — not  in  the  evil 
sense,  you  know." 

After  a  little  time  Miss  Wicks  seated  herself  by 
Lois,  near  Stewart,  and  looked  on  at  his  rapid  work. 
Mr.  Stowe  and  Eliza  Grant  had  gone  on  to  the  place 
for  the  vaunted  prospect,  and  for  Wentworth  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  join  the  girls  who  were  watching 
Stewart's  progress.  He  was  not  consciously  jealous  ; 
but  he  felt  his  friend's  social  superiority,  and  he  was 
looking  intently  upon  Miss  Wicks's  face  to  catch  any 
indication  of  her  feeling.  He  saw  that  Stewart's  fas- 
cinating manner  had  made  an  impression  upon  all,  and 
that  he  might  be,  if  he  chose,  a  strong  competitor,  e\cn 
with  the  gracious,  sedate,  or  saintl\'  Miss  Wicks.  The 
three  adjectives  floated  over  her  image  in  his  mind,  and 


314  QUABBIN 

he  was  not  sure  which  of  them  belonged  to  her.  But 
what  likehhood  was  there  that  Stewart,  who  was  in  the 
height  of  favor  in  New  York  society,  would  think  seri- 
ously of  any  country  girl  ?  And  if  he  did,  would  it  not 
be  the  pretty  and  vivacious  Lois  ?  But,  probably,  he 
was  intent  only  upon  the  pleasure  of  the  moment. 
And  then  Wentworth  judged  himself  a  jealous  fool  to 
have  been  seeking  to  intercept  glances  of  intelligence, 
and  to  have  made  himself  miserable  upon  supposition. 
Jealousy,  as  he  reflected,  was  an  irrational  self-torture 
at  best.  And  what  right  had  he  to  be  jealous } 
Thou2:h  he  adored  Miss  Wicks,  she  had  not  manifested 
anything  beyond  courtesy  and  good-will.  And  then 
the  insurmountable  obstacles, — his  unfinished  studies, 
his  lack  of  position  and  fortune,  his  liberal  opinions. 
^*  Fool,  fool  !  "  he  said  to  himself,  '*  better  cram  your 
impulses  back  into  your  heart,  get  through  this  day, 
keep  out  of  temptation  in  future,  and  leave  Ouabbin  !  " 
This  wisdom,  however,  had  only  a  short  reign. 

Meanwhile,  the  sketch  was  becoming  a  vivid  impres- 
sion, and  the  young  ladies  were  full  of  admiration. 
Soon  Mr.  Stowe  and  Eliza  Grant  returned  with  a  glow- 
ins:  account  of  the  view  from  the  rock.  Stewart  cast 
a  rapid  glance  at  them,  and  mentally  observed  that 
there  was  something  in  their  faces  besides  scenery. 
But  Went  worth's  regards  were  only  for  Miss  Wicks  ; 
and  he  said,  "  Since  we  have  come  so  far,  perhaps  we 
ought  to  go  there,  and  get  the  best  view.  Suppose 
we  all  go  .''  " 

"  Thank  you,  no,"  said  Stewart.  "  I  must  not  waste 
a  moment  ;  and  I  don't  wish  to  confuse  the  impres- 
sions of  views  from  different  points.  The  rest  of  you 
can  e:o." 


AN  EXCURSION  3  I  5 

Wentworth  looked  an  earnest  interrogation  to  Miss 
Wicks,  who,  after  a  little  hesitation,  said,  *' Yes,  I  will 
go.  Will  you  come  too,  Lois  ? "  Lois  was  evidently 
reluctant,  and  answered, — 

*' Perhaps  I  may  follow  you  later.  I  am  much  inter- 
ested in  02ir  sketch." 

The  pair  started  off,  while  Mr.  Stowe  and  Eliza 
strolled  about  arm-in-arm,  leaving  the  painter  and  Lois 
by  themselves. 

If  this  young  lady's  thoughts  could  have  been  suc- 
cessively photographed,  the  train  would  have  appeared 
something  like  this  :  — 

*'A  charming  man;  original,  and  a  little  brusque, 
yet  delicate  and  not  egotistic.  I  don't  read  him  clearly. 
His  heart  is  not  worn  on  his  sleeve.  Can  he  be  en- 
gaged already  }  All  engaged  men  ought  to  be  labelled, 
just  as  other  mortgages  are  recorded.  How  he  works  ! 
And  he  has  not  said  one  word  that  all  the  world  might 
not  hear.  Yet  his  eyes  asked  me  to  sit  down  beside 
him.  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  can  throw  his  handker- 
chief, like  a  sultan.  Or  perhaps  he  isn't  a  marrying 
man  ;  artists  are  said  to  be  queer  ;  and  he  talks  about 
loving  his  art.  To  love  a  woman  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose. Now  that  Alma  Wicks  is  away  he  might  take 
the  time  to  say  something  nice.  Anyhow  sJic  can't 
have  him  alone.  Eliza  can  have  that  dark-looking  min- 
\?>X.Q.x  for  all  vie.  I  wonder  if  the  schoolmaster  will  pro- 
pose to  Alma.'*  I  believe  he  is  dying  to;  but  she  won't 
have  him  :  her  father  wouldn't  let  her.  I  should  be 
afraid  to  trust  him  ;  he  is  to(^  much  like  Herman  h^icld  ; 
too  frank  by  half.  I  like  this  shrewd  painter  better. 
All  the  same,  I  wish  Wentworth  would  sometime  pro- 
jDOse  to  me.     I  might  play  with  him,  —  just  a  little, — 


3l6  QUABBIN 

and  then  I  should  refuse  him  ;  and  my  account  with 
schoolmasters  would  be  square.  I  wonder  if  Stewart 
is  like  some  artists,  —  the  least  bit  of  a  niauvais  sujet, 
—  what  they  call  Bohemian?  He  is  on  the  surface 
free  and  off-hand,  but  perhaps  —  However,  as  he 
doesn't  paint  nude  figures,  he  has  no  need  or  excuse 
for  a  model.  Couldn't  allow  that  on  any  account. 
Wentworth  and  Alma  Wicks  will  be  coming  back  soon, 
and  that  Stowe  and  Eliza  may  stumble  in  upon  us  at 
any  moment.  Really,  isn't  he  going  to  take  advantage 
of  the  interim,  and  say  something  pretty  .?  No,  he 
avon't.  I  have  a  great  mind  to  leave  him,  and  follow 
Wentworth  and  Alma.  But  that  would  be  mean.  Let 
the  schoolmaster  have  his  chance,  and  be  put  out  of 
his  misery.  How  that  brush  goes,  and  how  the  dis- 
tant hills  start  up  on  the  canvas  !  He  doesn't  dream 
what  I  am  thinking  of.  Perhaps  he  doesn't  care.  How 
do  the  lines  go } 

"  'Alas,  to  seize  the  moment 
,  When  heart  inclines  to  heart, 

And  press  a  suit  with  passion 
Is  not  a  woman's  part. 

If  tlie  man  comes  not  to  gather 

The  roses  where  they  stand, 
They  fade  among  their  foliage, 

They  cannot  seek  his  hand.' 

"'Tis  true,  and  pity  'tis,  'tis  true.  T  wish  I  had  been 
born  a  man  !  No,  for  then —  No,  'tis  better  as  it  is. 
I  will  queen  it  to  the  last.  But  it  is  sometimes  hard  to 
be  passive  when  the  active  ivle  might  serve  so  well." 

And  while  she  mused  and  raged,  Stewart  was  brush- 
ing away,  bringing  out  misty  hilltops,  clustered  trees, 
points   of    spires,   and   gleaming  streaks   of    river,   but 


AN  EXCURSION  317 

without  a  tender  word  to  the  maid  beside  him.  Did  he 
think  of  her?  Yes,  vaguely  ;  but  it  was  as  of  "some- 
thing that  would  keep."  The  thought  was  not  im- 
portunate. 

"  Your  friend  is  an  accomplished  man,"  said  Miss 
Wicks  to  Went  worth,  as  they  walked  away. 

*'  Yes  ;  and  he  was  greatly  admired  in  college.  He 
has  a  good  mind  aside  from  his  artistic  faculty,  and 
would  have  shone  in  any  profession  ;  but  he  was  born 
a  painter,  and  after  a  time  he  determined  to  give  up 
everything  for  art." 

**  There  seems  to  be  a  distinct  type  of  men  in  New 
York,"  said  Miss  Wicks.  "They  are  easier  and  more 
ao:reeab]e  in  manner  than  most  Bostonians.  I  have 
found  Bostonians  either  meditative,  or  stiff,  or  self- 
conscious." 

"  Something  of  the  Puritan  manner  survives  in 
them,"  said  Wentworth.  "They  are  proud  of  family 
and  wealth,  though  not  more  so  than  New  Yorkers, 
and  they  add  something  of  British  'grandeur'  and 
implacability.  The  New  Yorker  calmly  rests  on  his 
superiority  ;  the  Bostonian  doesn't  intend  that  any- 
body shall  forget  it." 

"  I  presume  you  may  be  right,  but  I  have  seen  few 
young  men  from  either  city.  You  are  not  a  Bostonian, 
I  believe  }  " 

"  No  ;   I  am  from  a  town  near  Boston." 

"  And  you  are  about  leaving  Ouabbin,  I  hear." 

"Yes;  my  school  term  has  ended,  and  I  must  go 
back  to  college.  I  am  sorry  niy  time  here  has  been  so 
short.  A  schoolmaster  makes  but  a  little  ripple  in 
society  ;  but  among  my  forty  pupils  I  ho{)c  there  may 
be  some  who  will  remember  me." 


3l8  QUAE  BIN 

"  You  are  sure  to  be  remembered.  A  teacher  may 
influence  his  pupils'  whole  life  ;  and,  in  any  event,  if  he 
is  a  man  of  ideas,  he  cannot  fail  to  make  a  lasting 
impression  upon  young  minds." 

''  But  there  is  a  deeper  reason  for  my  regret  in  leav- 
ing," said  Wentworth.  "  I  think  you  must  have  guessed 
it.  I  have  no  art  to  conceal  my  feelings,  and  you  must 
have  seen  how  much  I  admire  you." 

*'  You  are  very  kind  to  say  so,  but  I  ought  not  to  let 
you  go  on." 

"  And  why  not  1  I  know  I  must  complete  my  studies, 
and  that  Time  will  not  stand  still  for  me  ;  but  while  I 
am  with  you  I  am  not  my  own  master.  You  are  more 
to  me  than  ambition  or  any  earthly  good." 

**  And  if  I  cannot  reciprocate,  it  would  be  wrong  not 
to  tell  you,  would  it  not  }  " 

"  I  know  the  obstacles,"  he  continued,  as  if  he  had 
not  heard  her.  **  I  know  that  in  my  present  state  of 
uncertainty  I  ought  not  to  speak,  —  that  silence  would 
better  become  me  ;  but  I  cannot  put  down  the  wish  ;  I 
cannot  forego  the  hope.  I  could  not  go  away  Vv^ithout 
telling  you." 

"  It  may  be  a  relief  to  you,  but  you  should  know  it 
is  painful  to  me." 

*'  Is  the  knowledge  that  an  honorable  man  loves  you 
painful  ^  " 

"  Yes,  when  I  know  that  his  love  cannot  be  re- 
turned." 

"  Dear  Miss  Wicks,  I  do  not  ask  for  a  return  now. 
I  know  that  I  have  to  toil  some  years  before  that  can- 
be  ;  but,  when  Providence  opens  the  way,  if  'you  should 
then  be  free,  I  shall  come  to  offer  you  my  love  and  my 
life." 


AN  EXCURSION  319 

*'  I  am  afraid  that  time  is  not  likely  to  bring  us  any 
nearer  together." 

'*  May  I  ask  if  you  feel  aversion  or  indifference 
toward  me  ? " 

*'  Not  at  all,  Mr.  Wentworth.  You  are  very  far  from 
disagreeable.  I  esteem  you  highly  ;  but  as  to  marriage, 
I  could  not  think  of  it  ;  and  I  see  I  must  be  plain  with 
you." 

"  If  it  is  not  in  my  person,  nor  in  what  you  know  of 
my  character,  I  am  at  a  loss." 

"  It  would  be  enough  to  remind  you  of  the  time  that 
must  pass.  An  engagement  with  a  young  man  who  is 
still  in  college  "  — 

''  But  is  there  not  somethinsf  more  }  " 

''  I  need  not  give  any  other  reason." 

*' But  is  there  not  another  —  something  quite  differ- 
ent ->.  " 

"  I  will  be  frank  with  you.  IMy  friends  (and  I  mean 
chiefly  my  father)  believe  that  you  are  unsettled  in  your 
religious  belief." 

''  Your  friends  think  I  am  not  quite  orthodox.  But 
do  you  know  that  among  the  most  conscientious  men 
there  are  those  who  cannot  fit  their  conceptions  into 
the  lines  of  any  written  creed  }  I  have  never  re- 
nounced the  doctrines  of  the  orthodox  church  in 
which  I  was  brought  up,  but  I  confess  I  have  some 
misGfivinsis." 

*'  When  one  begins  to  doubt,  I  have  heard  say,  there 
is  no  knowimr  where  he  mav  end." 

"  He  will  not  end  badly  if  he  determines  to  follow 
where  truth  leads." 

"  Our  minister  says  the  worst  enemies  of  religion  are 
the  unstable,  who  make  conscience  an  excuse  for  doubt. 


320  QUABBIX 

WHio  can  say  where  you  will  be  found  a  few  years 
hence  ? " 

"  I  trust  I  shall  always  follow  Christ ;  and  what 
Christian  can  do  more  ?  But  that  is  not  enough,  I 
know,  for  those  who  think  there  is  no  fruitful  piety 
unless  it  is  nailed  upon  a  theologic  frame.  And,  as  I 
have  declined  assistance  from  the  l^Lducation  Society, 
because  I  would  not  pledge  myself  to  preach,  I  fear 
I  am  regarded  as  little  better  than  one'  of  the  wicked. 
But,  I  beg  your  pardon.  Miss  Wicks.  It  is  not  right  or 
courteous  to  argue  in  this  way.  I  respect  your  right 
to  your  opinions,  and  I  hope  we  may  never  be  wider 
apart  than  we  are  now.  Let  me  repeat  that,  whatever 
you  may  say,  I  shall  live  in  hope  of  becoming  some  day 
worthy  of  you,  at  least  in  a  measure." 

Miss  Wicks  gently  shook  her  head,  while  a  melan- 
choly smile  —  if  a  look  in  which  warm  regard  and  hope- 
less pity  were  blended  could  be  so  called  —  played  over 
her  expressive  features.  She  gave  him  her  hand,  which 
he  kissed,  and  then  they  took  their  way  back.  Stewart 
looked  a  moment  at  them  as  thev  came  near,  and  said  to 
himself,  "  There  seems  to  be  something  discomposing 
about  that  boasted  view.  When  Stowe  and  Miss  Grant 
returned  there  was  a  look  in  their  faces  that  could  not 
have  been  due  to  scenery,  and  now  you  two  come  back 
completely  upset,  both  of  you."  Then  turning  to  his 
companion,  *'  It  is  well  we  didn't  go,  Miss  Lois,  isn't  it  ? 
There  should  be  one  sane  and  cheerful  couple." 

''I  don't  know,"  said  Lois;  ''I  fear  I  belong  to  the 
flighty,  rather  than  to  those  you  call  sane  people." 

'' And  j^;/  desert  me.'*"  said  Stewart,  ''then  I  am 
indeed  unhappy.  Well,  wisdom  will  be  justified  of  her 
one  faithful  child." 


A  A'   EXCURSION  32 1 

He  had  done  all  he  proposed  to  his  sketch  ;  and  so, 
taking  up  the  canvas,  he  started  with  it  toward  the 
coach,  while  Wentworth  and  Stowe  gathered  the  dishes 
and  napkins  into  the  basket. 

*'  I  will  sit  beside  the  driv^er,"  said  Stewart,  "  other- 
wise it  would  be  difficult  to  save  the  ladies'  dresses 
from  being  soiled  by  this  fresh  paint.  Pity  I  haven't 
learned  to  use  water-colors." 

Miss  Wicks  and  Lois  sat  at  the  back ;  Eliza  and  Mr. 
Stowe  took  the  middle  seat,  and  Wentworth  occupied 
the  front.  It  was  a  preoccupied  and  silent  party  inside. 
The  pair  on  the  middle  seat  appeared  thoughtful,  yet 
not  unhappy  ;  Lois  was  still  wroth  on  account  of  the 
persistent  silence  of  her  companion  during  the  day  ; 
Wentworth  felt  bitterly  that  his  impetuosity  had  led 
him  into  an  impasse ;  and  Alma  Wicks  was  wishing 
that  he  had  remained  silent.  Stewart,  meanwhile,  was 
in  excellent  humor,  holding  his  canvas  on  his  knees 
edgewise,  and,  when  not  too  heavily  jolted,  whistling, 
or  humming,  or  singing  in  deep  bass  tones  airs  from 
the  "  Masfic  Flute." 

After  supper  at  the  hotel,  Wentworth  and  Stewart 
strolled  down  toward  the  Crombie  bridge. 

'*  Your  departure  seems  sudden  ;  day  after  to-morrow, 
you  say  1  "  said  Wentworth. 

*'  Yes;  I  must  be  in  my  studio  early  in  October,  and 
I  want  to  visit  Lake  Georjie  on  the  wav." 

"■  I  shall  go  when  you  go.  Of  course  your  sister  had 
told  you,  or  written  you,  of  these  Ouabbin  girls,  had 
she  not  .'*  " 

*'  Yes  ;  and  I  confess  I  came  here  mainly  to  see 
them." 

'^  And  which  one  do  vou  admire  .'' " 


322  QUABBIN 

''Miss  Wicks"  —  Wentworth's  countenance  fell. 
"Miss  Wicks,  I  was  going  on  to  say,"  said  Stewart 
gravely,  ''  is  an  almost  ideally  perfect   character  "  — 

''  Well  ?  "  said  Wentworth,  in  a  rising  and  imperative 
tone,  indicative  of  extreme  impatience. 

"Ideally  perfect  in  character  for  a  wife"  —  and  there 
was  a  coming  smile. 

"What  pauses!"  ejaculated  Wentworth.  "For 
Heaven's  sake,  do  finish  your  sentence  !" 

"  For  the  wife  of  a  calm  and  philosophic  person  like 
yourself,"  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  eyes.  "  I  am  not 
worthy  of  her." 

"  Is  any  one  V  demanded  Wentworth  excitedly. 

"  Probably  no  one.  But  I  don't  think  it  worth  while 
to  aspire.  A  less  perfect  woman  would  suit  me 
better." 

"  Such  as  Lois  Grant,  for  instance  .-*  " 

"  Well,  she  is  pretty  and  bright,  and  would  make  a 
cheery  wife  for  a  melancholy  man." 

"  You  call  yourself  melancholy  } " 

"  Whenever  you  see  a  fellow  on  stilts  with  good 
humor  in  public,  you  may  be  sure  he  is  a  desponding 
wretch  when  left  to  himself.  I  hope  to  go  to  Europe 
next  year  to  see  the  galleries.  It  is  an  easy  matter 
now;  the  New  York  clipper-ships  cross  in  thirty  days, 
and  sometimes  even  in  twenty.  If  I  were  to  marry, 
that  would  be  a  glorious  bridal  trip.  I  shall  try  to  be 
saving,  if  that  is  possible,  and  make  preparations  ;  and 
I  may  ask  a  young  lady  to  go  with  me." 

"  Why  don't  you  ask  her  now  1 " 

"  The  proverb  says,  *  Never  leap  before  you  come  to 
the  stile.'" 

"  Proverbs  are  rubbish.     They  are   always    cynical, 


AjV  excursion  3-3 

and  they  are  seldom  fitted  to  actual  circumstances.  A 
word  spoken  now  might  prevent  a  sad  misundcrstand- 
ins:  hereafter." 

''  I'll  think  of  it.     By  the  way,  you  were  eager  just 
now  to  know  what  I  was  gomg  to  say  of  Miss  Wicks." 
"Naturally  I  was  eager.     I  worship  her  !  " 
*'  I  rather  thought   that  the  prospect  you  went  out 
with  her  to  see  was  not  that  of  the  Connecticut  Valley, 
but  of  the  land  of  promise,  like  that  from  Pisgah." 
*'  No  promise  in  it  for  me,  I  assure  you." 
*'  The  sad  tone  of  your  voice  is  catching.    Let  us  cry." 
Then   Wentworth  told   his    friend,  what  the  reader 
already  knows,   of  Miss  Wicks's  tea-party,  and  of  the 
recent  conversation  on  the  hillside. 

"The  affair  doesn't  look  promising,"  said  Stewart. 
"  According  to  Dr.  Johnson,  no  one  is  ever  reasoned 
out  of  a  doctrine  or  position  that  he  was  not  reasoned 
into.  Prejudice  is  inveterate,  especially  when  it  has 
the  sanction  of  religion  ;  there  is  no  contending  with  it. 
There  is  little  chance  for  you,  unless  the  lady  should  go 
away  from  here,  and  come  under  different  influences. 
And  you  have  not  shown  much  tact.  Why  must  you 
blurt  out  your  opinions  }  As  you  haven't  broken  with 
her  church,  why  need  you  have  brought  your  pale 
doubts  out  of  the  cellar  where  they  have  sprouted  } 
And  why  should  you  have  tried  an  assault  instead  of  a 
carefully  planned  siege  }  " 

"  I  must  follow  mv  instincts,"  said  Wentworth.  "  I 
could  not  restrain  my  impulses,  though  I  see  I  was  un- 
wise ;  and,  as  to  my  blurting  out  opinions,  I  cannot  and 
would  not  conceal  an  honest  thought,  of  whatever  com- 
plexion, not  for  any  advantage." 
"Not  for  Miss  Wricks.?" 


324  QUABBIN 

"■  Not  for  any  woman,"  said  Wentworth  doggedly. 

"  Well,  we'll  think  about  it.  You  know  v/e  are  to 
take  tea  with  the  Grant  family  to-morrow.  Curious 
way  they  have  in  this  village.  Tea,  indeed  !  Why  not 
a  dinner  }  " 

"  Dinner-parties  are  seldom  given  ;  principally  be- 
cause everybody  dines  in  the  middle  of  the  day.  But 
a  tea,  w^ith  a  re-enforcemcnt  of  steaks,  chickens,  and 
oysters,  is  not  a  bad  substitute  for  a  dinner  ;  and  then 
a  sociable  evening  follows." 

*'  I  suppose  we  shall  meet  the  minister  and  his  wife." 

"■  Yes,  and  James  Stowe,  who  appears  to  have  got  on 
well.  You  see,  he  didn't  look  at  Miss  Wicks,  who,  for 
a  minister's  wife,  w^ould  be  twice  the  woman  that  Eliza 
Grant  is." 

"  Unreasonable  and  perverse  man  that  you  are,"  said 
Stewart,  "  to  quarrel  with  a  fellow  because  he  did  not 
try  to  cut  you  out !  " 

*'  If  Air.  Wicks  had  been  rich  you  would  have  seen  ; 
but  Stowe  knows  that  the  Grant  girls  are  going  to  in- 
herit a  pile  of  money,  and  he  was  bound  to  have  one  of 
them,  if  he  could  get  her." 

The  long  drive  and  the  events  of  the  day  had  brought 
fatigue,  and  the  friends  separated  early. 


AiXOTHER    TEA-PARTY  325 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

ANOTHER    TEA-PART V 

The  tea-party  given  by  the  Misses  Grant  comprised 
the  minister  and  his  wife,  Mr.  and  Miss  Wicks,  Mr. 
Stowe,  Dr.  Fletcher,  Mr.  Wentworth,  and  Mr.  Stewart. 
Mr.  Grant  and  his  daughters  received  their  guests  with 
frank  courtesy,  and  in  the  case  of  the  minister  it  rose 
to  an  affectionate  and  reverent  greeting.  The  "  tea  " 
was  served  in  bountiful  style,  and  Stewart  afterward 
acknowledged  that  no  (teetotal)  dinner  could  have  been 
more  appetizing  or  substantial.  After  the  repast  was 
over,  the  gentlemen  were  shown  into  the  ''parlor,"  as 
the  drawing-room  was  called,  while  the  ladies  lingered 
behind,  according  to  custom. 

The  minister  began  to  talk  with  the  painter  about 
the  scenery  of  the  neighborhood,  and  the  places  he  had 
visited,  and  showed  that  he  had  some  feeling  for  land- 
scape, and  some  regard  for  art.  Mr.  Grant  listened 
with  interest ;  for  though  he  knew  that  a  painter  might 
be  famous  after  death,  he  was  not  quite  sure  he  would 
be  a  man  to  be  altogether  respected  while  living.  The 
feeling  among  country  people  in  regard  to  artists  was 
shown  by  the  questions  put  to  Wentworth  by  Miss 
Wicks  the  day  before.  It  will  be  rcmcmbci-ctl  there 
had  never  been  an  artist  in  Ouabbin,  and  the  idea  that 
landscape   painting   could    be    really  an  honorable  and 


326  QUABBIN    • 

lucrative  profession  had  never  occurred  to  such  men  as 
Mr.  Grant  and  Mr.  Wicks.  The  latter  said  to  Mr. 
Stewart,  "  I  wonder  yeou  don't  paint  portraits."  —  "  Ah, 
no,"  said  Stewart,  *'that  is  a  distinct  branch  of  the  art. 
Many  great  artists  have  painted  portraits,  but  they 
usually  chose  their  subjects.  In  a  portrait,  character 
is  the  thing  ;  and  an  artist  might  have  twenty  orders 
before  he  would  have  a  chance  to  do  himself  credit. 
What  is  he  to  do  when  he  is  asked  to  paint  all  sorts  of 
people,  — the  dull,  the  mean,  bigoted,  avaricious,  or  cun- 
ning }  How  will  he  make  a  brilliant  picture  out  of  an 
insipid  or  vulgar  woman  t  " 

''  But  if  he  makes  likenesses  ?  "  said  Mr.  Grant. 

*'  A  mere  map  of  the  features  is  nothing  without  the 
soul,"  said  Stewart.  "If  a  portrait  does  not  reveal 
character  it  is  not  art.  The  new  and  wonderful  sun- 
pictures  of  Daguerre,  taken  on  silver  plates,  ought  to 
satisfy  those  who  want  mere  likenesses  ;  although,  as 
the  sitter  has  to  be  motionless  in  glaring  sunlight  for 
some  minutes,  his  eyes  are  apt  to  blink.  I  suppose  you 
you  have  seen  them,  Mr.  Grant  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  I  saw  them  in  Boston  at  Plumb's.  They  are 
not  taken  in  the  country  yet." 

''You  are  from  New  York.'*"  said  the  minister  to 
Stewart. 

*'  I  live  there,  though  I  was  born  at  some  distance 
from  the  city." 

"  By  your  name  you  must  be  of  Scottish  descent,  like 
myself." 

"Yes.     My  grandfather  came  from  Scotland." 

"  We  have  great  reason  to  rejoice  in  the  Christian 
light  and  liberty  of  this  land,"  said  the  minister.  "  It 
is  in  many  things  like  Scotland." 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  327 

''  And  yet  there  are  differences,"  said  Stewart.  ^*  For 
instance,  liberty  has  a  meaning  here  that  is  not  known 
anywhere  else." 

"In  speaking  of  liberty,"  said  Wentworth,  ''you 
mean  probably  to  include  equality." 

*' Certainly,"  said  Stewart.  ''Where  there  is  not 
political  equality,  there  is  no  true  liberty." 

"Where  did  the  notion  of  political  equality  first 
appear  t  "  asked  Wentworth  of  the  minister.  "  Do  you 
find  it  in  the  early  laws  or  customs  of  the  colony  ?  " 

"It  had  not  occurred  to  the  Puritans,  I  think,"  replied 
the  minister.  "  They  were  Britons,  and  apparently  had 
never  questioned  law  and  usage  as  to  established  ranks 
and  orders  of  men.  They  were  little  given  to  theoriz- 
ing, and  let  things  grow." 

"The  most  remarkable  of  their  institutions,"  said 
Wentv\^orth,  "  was  the  town,  and  that,  as  you  say,  grew 
up.  It  is  the  most  important  feature  in  local  govern- 
ment, the  realization  of  democracy.  As  to  equality,  it 
must  have  come  from  France.  It  was  never  heard  of, 
as  I  believe,  before  it  was  incorporated  in  the  Declara- 
tion of  Independence." 

"Well,"  said  Stewart,  "there  is  another  idea  which 
appears  to  be  embraced  in  your  phrase  'Christian  light 
and  liberty,'  and  that  is  religious  toleration.  Where 
did  that  come  from  .'* " 

"  Evidently  not  from  the  founders  of  Massachusetts," 
said  Wentworth.  "The  history  of  the  colony  is  full 
of  painful  proofs  to  the  contrary."  ^ 

"  No,"  said  the  minister;  "it  must  be  confessed  tlie 
fathers  of  this  State  were  not  'tolerant.'  Unhappily 
they  did  not  see  that  truth  by  its  own  nature  and  jkuio- 
ply  is  invulnerable,  and  needs  no  protection  from   the 


328  QUAE  BIN 

temporal  power.  Roger  Williams,  whom  they  did  not 
understand  or  appreciate,  appears  to  have  been  the 
first  in  Christendom  to  perceive  this  just  doctrine." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  said  Went  worth. 
''Many  are  so  fearful  of  countenancing  reproach  upon 
the  Puritan  fathers,  that  they  wander  away  from  the 
point  of  ethics,  and  defend  the  early  intolerance  on  the 
crround  that  the  exclusion  of  heretics  and  malecon- 
tents  was  a  political  necessity." 

**  Was  it  not  a  political  necessity  t  "  asked  Mr.  Stowe. 
"  And,  as  the  colonists  were  what  we  might  call  a  pri- 
vate corporation,  were  they  not  right  to  keep  out  any 
intruders  whom  they  judged  dangerous  to  their  little 
state  ?  " 

"  The  political  reason  may  have  been  urgent,"  said 
Wentworth  ;  "  but  that  is  not  taking  high  ground.  It 
is  defending  a  false  position  in  morals  by  reasons  of 
expediency." 

"  The  fathers  were  wise  in  their  generation,"  said 
the  minister,  *' but  I  don't  think  they  consciously  took 
a  low  position  in  regard  to  Christian  ethics.  They 
were  taught  by  many  trials,  and  generation  by  gener- 
ation they  rose  into  clearer  light  ;  but  from  the  begin- 
ning they  had  high  and  noble  aims,  and  impressed  their 
character  upon  the  colony.  Few  founders  of  churches, 
and  few  lawgivers,  have  higher  claims  upon  the  admira- 
tion of  mankind." 

*'  What  you  say  of  their  character  is  true,"  said 
Wentworth. 

"There  is  another  criticism,"  said  Stewart.  "A 
friend  of  mine,  wlio  is  a  student  of  constitutional  law, 
finds  fault  with  the  early  legislation,  and  especially 
with  the  administration  of  law,  as  showing   ignorance 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  329 

of  legal  principles,  as  well  as  low  and  narrow  views  of 
the  functions  of  government.  He  says  that  lawyers 
had  been  excluded,  and  not  allowed  to  practise,  and 
that  they  had  no  standing  —  in  Massachusetts  at  least 
—  until  about  the  time  of  the  Revolution;  that  for 
a  hundred  years  persons  were  appointed  magistrates 
who  were  notoriously  incompetent  ;  that  the  clergy  did 
their  best  to  set  up  the  Mosaic  code  ;  that,  in  short, 
there  was  an  almost  total  subversion  of  justice  as  it 
had  been  administered  for  centuries  in  English  courts. 
You  see,  I  reel  off  what  my  friend  told  me.  I  am  not 
a  lawyer." 

*'  The  influence  of  the  clergy  has  been  often  the  sub- 
ject of  unfriendly  comment,"  said  the  minister,  ''and  the 
government  has  been  called  a  theocracy  ;  but  I  believe 
that  in  early  times  the  Puritan  ministers  had  no  undue 
influence,  no  more  than  was  exercised  by  the  Romish 
or  the  Episcopal  clergy.  The  times  are  altered.  In 
an  age  of  faith  the  people  willingly  followed  their 
spiritual  leaders." 

''  That  hardly  meets  the  case,"  said  Stewart.  "  If 
what  my  friend  says  is  true,  the  Puritan  clergy  not  only 
wanted  the  influence  and  leadership  to  which  they  were 
entitled,  but  determined  there  should  be  no  other. 
They  feared  able  lawyers,  and  preferred  uneducated 
magistrates  whom  they  could  manage.  No  other  lead- 
ing church  has  suppressed  lawyers." 

"Are  lavv^yers  so  very  important  }  "  asked  Mr.  Stowe. 
"  Do  they  not,  as  a  class,  stir  up  strife,  and  despoil 
both  plaint,iff  and  defendant  by  the  machinery  of 
courts  i 

"  Can  you  have  an  intelligent  school  of  medicine 
without    ph\sicians  .-^ "    said    Stewart,  "or    of    theology 


330  QUAE  BIN 

without  an  educated  clergy  ?  And  can  there  be  a 
system  of  law  without  trained  lawyers  ?  It  is  not 
wortli  while  to  dwell  upon  the  knavery  of  pettifoggers. 
It  is  better  to  look  at  law  with  the  eyes  of  Hooker 
or  Bacon.  What  basis  has  society,  what  protection 
is  there  for  property,  for  liberty,  or  for  life,  but  in  a 
settled  system  of  law.?  " 

"  I  should  think  that  many  of  the  troubles  of  the 
colony,"  said  Wentworth,  **  arose  from  the  want  of 
legal  knowledge,  and  from  disregarding  the  rules  of 
judicial  procedure.  I  am  a  Puritan  to  the  last  drop 
of  my  blood,  but  it  appears  to  me  that  the  course  of 
the  early  rulers  of  Massachusetts  in  endeavoring  to 
administer  justice  without  regard  to  Vv^hat  we  should 
now  call  constitutional  principles  and  methods  was  the 
occasion  of  calamities  and  scandals." 

''  The  Christian  liberty  and  light  of  which  you 
speak,"  said  Stewart  to  the  minister,  "  is  complex,  and 
seems  to  have  largely  come  from  without.  The  legacy 
which  the  Puritans  left  was  personal  liberty  (as  far  as  it 
was  then  possible),  and  with  it  an  exalted  character,  full 
of  faith  and  zeal.  For  political  equality,  which  is  the 
latest  phase  of  democracy,  we  are  indebted  to  Jeffer- 
son and  Rousseau  ;  while  for  toleration,  which  is  the 
Christian  corollary  of  equality,  we  are  indebted,  as  you 
have  said,  to  Roger  Williams.  These  related  doctrines 
are  now  so  universally  accepted,  we  easily  forget  that 
equality  and  toleration  are  so  modern,  and  were  once 
so  foreign  to  the  thought  of  the  fathers." 

"I  haven't  anythin'  to  say  agin  toleration,"  said 
Mr.  Wicks,  "  though  what  them  Methodists  (not 
more'n  two'r  three  dozen  on  'em),  git  by  goin'  tu  their 
meetin'  which  they  couldn't   git   by  goin'   to  aourn,  I 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  33T 

dunno  ;  but  I  shouldn't  like  to  sec  the  time  come  when 
the  ministers  won't  hev  any  word  ter  say  abaout  makin' 
the  laws.  I  was  allers  sorry  when  people  was  let  out 
from  payin'  the  minister-tax.  The  whole  people  oughter 
contribute  ter  the  s'port  of  the  gospel,  ez  the  whole 
people  gits  the  benefit  on't." 

Mr.  Wicks  was  a  man  of  fair  practical  sense,  but  his 
mind  moved  in  unexpected  curves,  rather  than  in  right 
lines. 

**True,"  said  Mr.  Grant.  "What  would  liberty  and 
law  be  worth  without  Christian  principle  ?" 

"  The  preachin'  of  the  gospel,  an'  the  influence  of 
the  church,"  continued  Mr.  Wicks,  "  is  what  holds 
thinsfs  tocrether.     Relioion's  better'n  sheriffs  an'  con- 

o  o  o 

stables.  Who  makes  th'  expense  of  courts  but  the  un- 
believers ?  Who  fills  the  jails  an'  poor-haouses  but 
th'  unbelievers  }  The  taxes  for  sech  things  fall  on 
sober  an'  God-fearin'  men,  who  ain't  responsible  for 
the  bad  behavior.  So  I  say  the  unbelievers  oughter 
pay  their  sheer  fer  preachin'." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  arguments,"  said  Dr.  Fletcher, 
"are  like  tools  carried  loose  in  a  basket, — they  cut  one 
another.  If  we  admit  that  the  church  restrains  crime, 
and  so  lessens  the  expense  for  criminals,  then  the  min- 
ister tax  is  for  vour  advantaire.  But  do  vou  think  the 
unbelievers  would  behave  better  if  they  were  compelled 
to  support  worship  which  they  wouldn't  attend?" 

"  I  can't  say,"  said  Mr.  Wicks.  "  On'y  I  feel  't  they 
oughter  be  made  ter  du  it." 

"  I  lately  had  a  talk  with  one  of  your  elderly  people," 
said  Wentworth,  "  and  he  told  me  that  in  the  old  times 
when  all  paid  the  minister  tax,  the  conduct  of  the  in- 
temperate and  depraved  was  far  worse  than  now.     They 


332  QUAE  BIN- 

were  often  drunk,  or  indecent,  or  malicious,  from  sheer 
perversity  or  defiance." 

"It  is  pretty  certain,"  said  Dr.  Fletcher,  "that  men 
are  not  reformed  from  drinking-habits,  nor  made  moral 
or  religious  by  law." 

"  Certainly  not,"  said  Mr.  Stewart,  "as  long  as  they 
think  they  are  wronged  as  well  as  coerced." 

"  True  religion,"  said  Mr,  Stowe,  "  comes  from  di- 
vine grace,  and  is  an  inward  life,  while  law  can  only 
control  the  outward  action." 

"  I  have  been  reflecting  upon  the  analysis  you  made 
of  liberty,"  said  the  minister  to  Mr.  Stewart,  "and  I 
would  suggest  that,  although  neither  political  equality 
nor  religious  toleration  originated  with  the  Puritans, 
yet  their  character  counted  for  so  much,  —  I  mean 
their  sublime  faith  and  truth,  their  conscientiousness, 
courage,  and  self-devotion, —  that  the  State  and  society 
they  founded  was  in  many  respects  unexampled.  We 
admit  that  Rousseau  developed  the  doctrine  of  political 
equality  ;  but  what  a  wretched  use  his  disciples  made  of 
it !  Roger  Williams  was  the  apostle  of  toleration,  —  all 
honor  to  him  !  —  but  is  Rhode  Island  to-day  in  any  way 
more  advanced  than  Massachusetts  }  A  people  actuated 
by  high  and  holy  motives  goes  on  developing  its 
powers,  and  receives  new  light  from  whatever  quarter. 
But  the  most  perfect  system  of  political  and  moral 
philosophy  would  not  have  built  up  our  State,  if  the 
cliaracter  of  its  founders  had  been  other  than  it 
was." 

"  I  cannot  abide  the  spirit  that  is  forever  seeking  to 
disparage  the  Puritans  and  Pilgrims,"  said  Mr.  Stowe 
with  warmth.  "  It  isn't  honorable  or  decent  to  belittle 
our  ancestors;   nor  is  it  just  to  try  them  by  modern 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  333 

standards.  In  actual  worth  they  were  heroes  com- 
pared wifh  the  puny  time-servers  of  to-day." 

"The  Puritans  were  not  my  ancestors,"  said  Stewart 
calmly.  ''They  are  entitled  to  veneration  for  what 
they  were  and  did;  but  their  principles  and  policy  may 
be  properly  judged  in  the  light  of  history,  as  we  judge 
of  the  ideas  and  conduct  of  the  Covenanters,  and  of  the 
Long--Parliament  men.  It  does  not  appear  to  me  dis- 
honorable or  indecent  to  point  out  their  errors  or  fail- 
ings ;  because  such  lessons  are  proper  for  the  instruction 
of  mankind." 

The  entrance  of  the  ladies  put  an  end  to  the  discus- 
sion ;  and  after  a  little  time  the  piano  was  opened,  and 
there  were  songs,  duets,  and  instrumental  pieces.  The 
minister  had  a  refined  taste  in  music,  within  certain 
limits,  and  was  an  attentive  listener  ;  his  wife  was  a 
woman  of  vigorous  mind,  with  few  feminine  elegances, 
and  wholly  absorbed  in  her  husband  and  his  work  ;  but 
she  smiled  upon  the  singers  in  a  way  that  was  meant 
to  be  gracious.  Dr.  Fletcher,  who  was  a  frequent  guest, 
stood  by  the  piano,  and  turned  over  the  leaves,  while 
his  head  kept  airy  time  with  the  music,  turning  now 
and  then  with  a  triumphant  look  at  the  company,  as  if 
to  emphasize  some  striking  passage.  He  had  been  an 
admirer  of  Lois  Grant,  and  had  worn  for  her  his  finest 
costumes  ;  but,  as  he  had  made  little  headway,  he  was 
now  thinking  of  cultivating  an  intimacy  with  Eliza  ; 
and  his  attentions  to  her  were  so  marked  that  the 
divinitv  student's  dark  face  soon  became  a  dimry  iireen. 
Went  worth  was  near  Miss  Wicks,  and  was  very  quiet. 
He  felt  that  if  he  should  ever  win  it  would  be  in  a 
waiting  race. 

The  painter  was   in   excellent  humcjr,  in  sfjite   of  the 


334  QUABBIN 

little  breeze  in  the  discussion,  and  he  adapted  himself 
with  easy  grace  to  the  gayety  of  Lois,  the  gravity  of 
her  father,  and  the  sombre  dignity  of  the  minister,  in 
turn.  The  minister  often  smiled,  but  it  was  like  the 
play  of  wintry  sunlight  on  marble.  He  could  not  make 
out  Stewart.  The  painter  was  a  man  of  the  world,  and 
that  was  not  the  sign  of  a  godly  man.  Evidently,  also, 
he  was  a  man  of  ideas,  well  read,  and  well  trained  ;  and 
that  of  itself  was  a  problem  ;  for  half  a  century  ago 
there  were  few  cultivated  men  outside  of  the  learned 
professions.  The  minister  continued  to  look  askance 
at  Wentworth,  and  was  uneasy  at  the  thought  that  the 
teacher  and  his  friend  Stewart  had  become  intimate 
with  favorite  members  of  his  flock. 

The  party  was  soon  divided  into  groups.  The  minis- 
ter had  a  quiet  conversation  with  Mr.  Stowe,  and 
learned  that  he  proposed  to  enter  the  service  of  the 
''American  Board"  as  a  missionary  to  the  Nestorians, 
and  that  he  desired  to  take  with  him  Eliza  Grant  as 
help-meet.  The  minister  seemed  pleased,  and  promised 
to  support  1dm  with  Mr.  Grant,  if  it  should  be  necessary. 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Stewart  had  approached  Lois,  and 
in  a  few  low-toned  sentences  let  her  know  that  he  was 
to  leave  Quabbin  the  next  day,  and  on  one  account 
(not  named)  deeply  regretted  going  ;  that  he  should  re- 
turn the  next  spring,  and  in  the  latter  part  of  summer 
intended  to  sail  to  Europe  for  a  long  visit.  Lois  lis- 
tened eagerly,  but,  except  in  the  play  of  her  expressive 
features,  made  no  reply. 

Turning  to  the  minister  Stewart  said  with  a  frank 
smile,  ''There  was  one  matter  I  did  not  mention  when 
we  were  talking  of  the  Puritans,  —  a  matter  that  con- 
cerns me    personally.     It  is,   that  in  those    old    times 


ANOTHER    lEA-PARTY  335 

I  might  have  been  arrested  and  put  in  the  stocks, 
or  banished  along  with  fiddlers,  beggars,  and  other 
vagabonds." 

"  Hardly  possible,"  said  the  minister. 

"  I  am  quite  sure  of  it.  To  begin  with,  no  one 
would  have  bought  my  pictures,  and  so  I  should  have 
been  'without  visible  means  of  support.'  "  My  vagrant 
life  wdiile  sketching  would  have  been  a  scandal.  My 
fancy  for  neckties  would  have  made  me  a  suspect,  and 
my  velvet  coat  might  have  brought  me  within  the 
sumptuary  laws.  Well,  perhaps  not  an  arrest,  but  an 
intimation.  I  should  have  been  made  to  understand 
that  there  was  no  room  nor  welcome." 

"  I  see  you  are  jesting,"  said  the  minister. 

"  No,  indeed,  replied  Stewart  ;  "  and  the  ground  you 
take  shows  how  public  sentiment  has  changed.  Half  a 
century  ago  the  clergy  and  magistrates  would  not  have 
looked  upon  me  with  your  friendly  eyes." 

Seeing  that  Mr.  Wicks  was  listening,  and  believing 
that  his  daughter  was  taking  note  also,  the  painter 
continued,  — 

''Then  as  to  toleration,  that  beautiful  trait  of  Chris- 
tian charity,  permit  me  to  say,  witli  all  respect,  that  I 
fear  the  descendants  of  the  Puritans  have  not  quite  got 
hold  of  it.  It  is  hard  for  them  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  being  in  the  wrong  ;  and  their  behavior  to  those  who 
are  unsound  in  the  faith  is,  to  say  the  least,  seldom 
quite  brotherly.  I  believe  my  friend  there,"  pointing 
to  Wentworth,  "  has  been  made  to  feel  it  ;  and  he  is 
the  most  conscienticnis  man  I  ever  knew.  If  there  was 
ever  a  sincere  and  devout  seeker  after  trutli,  he  is  the 
man.  He  is  of  the  stuff  of  which  mart\'rs  and  heroes 
are  made  ;  and  yet  his  life  is  overcast,  and  his  future  is 
uncertain,  on  account  of  a  pcrJiaps!' 


336  QUAE  BIN 

Stewart  did  not  raise  his  voice,  but  it  had  a  vibrant 
and  carrying  quality,  and  he  felt  sure  that  every  word 
told  upon  those  around  him. 

"  Your  warmth  does  you  credit,"  said  the  minister  ; 
**  but,  as  we  are  both  speaking  plainly,  you  will  pardon 
me  for  suggesting  that  the  value  of  your  opinion,  for 
us,  depends  upon  your  own  conceptions  of  divine  truth, 
and  your  relations  with  evangelical  believers." 

"  I  think  I  can  testify  to  what  I  have  seen,  no  matter 
what  may  be  my  opinions  ;  and  I  know  the  working  of 
my  friend's  mind,  as  a  watchmaker  knows  the  movement 
of  a  watch." 

'*  That  is  more  than  I  should  undertake  to  say  of  any 
friend,  however  intimate,"  said  the  minister.  ''God 
only  knows  the  heart.  Let  me  ask  if  you  are  a  mem- 
ber of  a  church  t  " 

"  I  have  been,  but  I  fear  my  membership  has  lapsed." 

''  I  thought  that  might  be  the  case.  How  can  you 
expect  that  we  should  accept  your  judgment,  when 
you  confess  that  you  are  not  qualified  by  any  relation 
with  the  church  of  Christ.?  A  worldly  minded  man 
may  lead  a  moral  and  respectable  life  ;  but  his  views 
upon  the  religious  character  of  a  friend  who,  I  may  sav, 
is  noted  for  a  tendency  to  doubt,  cannot  carry  much 
weight." 

"  What  you  say,"  said  Stewart,  "  shows  that  there  is 
a  wide  difference  between  modern  Christianity  and  that 
of  the  New  Testament.  Christ  never  talked  theology  ; 
his  creed  had  but  one  article,  and  he  gave  but  two  pre- 
cepts. But  I  had  not  reflected.  People  do  not  easily 
get  out  of  the  subtiltics  in  which  they  have  been  trained, 
I  fear  I  have  done  my  friend  hurt  instead  of  good.  We 
are  both  to  leave  this  place  to-morrow,  and  I  hoped  to 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  y:,'] 

sav  somethincr    that    miirht    make    him    resfrettcd,  and 
welcomed  if  he  should  ev^er  come  again." 

Mr.  Stowe  by  movements,  gestures,  and  frowns  suc- 
ceeded in  driving"  away  Dr.  Fletcher,  and  then  took  his 
place  by  the  side  of  Eliza  Grant.  Once  there,  his  seri- 
ous features  wore  a  look  of  gloomy  content.  He  did 
not  seem  an  ardent  lover,  but  a  lawful  and  godly  pos- 
sessor. What  fascination  he  exerted  upon  his  partner 
could  not  be  divined.  Women  when  they  marry  gen- 
erally prefer  looking  up  to  a  master,  rather  than  down 
upon  a  suppliant  or  servant.  She  was  going  to  leave 
her  home,  her  father  and  sister,  for  a  husband  whose 
love  w^as  more  allied  to  dutv  than  tenderness,  and  zo 
into  a  distant  land  to  encounter  hardship  and  danger, 
and  would  not  return  for  many  years.  It  was  the  old 
Puritan  courage,  devotion,  sacrifice,  such  as  has  be^n 
shown  in  everv  ireneration. 

Miss  Wicks  was  talking  absently  with  Dr.  Fletcher. 
Her  father  and  Mr.  Grant  were  listening  to  the  minis- 
ter, who  counselled  standing  fast  in  the  old  ways  ;  and 
the  minister's  stately  wife,  who  had  seen  everything, 
was  talking  earnestly  with  Lois.  At  this  point  Went- 
worth  and  Stewart  took  leave  of  the  company  with  a 
word  of  farewell  and  a  shake  of  the  hand  of  each. 
Their  absence  produced  a  void. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  Stewart,  in  walking  home  with 
Wentworth,  "it  is  not  religion  itself  which  is  antago- 
nistic to  human  progress  ;  but  it  is  the  design  of  men 
like  yonder  minister  to  make  it  so.  You  told  me  how 
he  talked  to  you  about  Scott  and  Shakespeare  ;  how 
jealous  he  was  of  literature  ;  and  it  is  the  same  with 
everything.  Give  him,  and  people  like  hi  n.  full  swing, 
and  there  would  not  be  a  poet,  novelist,  painter,  ur  com- 


338  QUABBIN 

poser.  The  clergy  have  yielded  somewhat,  but  grudg- 
ingly, and  because  they  have  been  obliged  to.  They 
would  like  to  have  the  old  darkness  return.  They  would 
have  music  *  experience  religion  ; '  they  would  frighten 
gayety  into  tears,  put  scientists  in  leading-strings,  smash 
the  classic  statues,  and  turn  the  splendors  of  Titian  and 
Leonardo  to  the  wall.  What  a  world  they  would  make 
of  it  !  And  let  the  best  and  purest  man  say  a  word  in 
favor  of  light,  life,  and  beauty,  he  is  the  target  of  arrowy 
texts." 

*' You  are  'riding  the  high  horse,'  "  said  Wentworth, 
''and  you  are  not  wholly  just.  The  orthodox  clergy 
show  some  traces  of  the  old  intolerance  ;  it  is  born  in 
them ;  but  they  are  generally  just  and  considerate, 
especially  in  populous  communities,  and  they  do  not 
wish  to  deprive  their  people  of  innocent  pleasure.  In 
this  town  there  is  a  provincial,  or  rather  a  parochial 
narrowness  ;  things  move  slowly,  the  old  shadow  over- 
hanofs." 

''  There  is  no  need  of  my  repeating  things  which  you 
know  perfectly  well,"  said  Stewart;  "but  let  me  say, 
the  thins^s  which  make  for  humanitv  must  move  on  to- 
gether.  A  broad  system  of  education,  including  reli- 
gion for  the  soul  and  athletics  for  the  body,  holds  the 
centre  ;  but  law,  natural  science,  industrial  training, 
medicine,  literature,  music,  the  fine  arts,  and  organized 
philanthropy,  all  have  their  separate  claims,  and  not 
one  of  them  can  be  slighted.  Why  should  religion 
limit  literature  or  crowd  out  art,  any  more  than  these 
should  restrict  religion  }  I  think  there  are  viany  things 
'  needful ;'  and  it  is  a  wrong  and  shame  to  arouse  or  play 
upon  a  morbid  fear  of  death,  in  order  to  secure  for  wor^ 
ship  or  })iety,  or  whatever  you  please  to  call  it,  an  undue 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  339 

share  of  men's  time  and  thoufrht.  We  have  so  manv 
useful  and  agreeable  things  to  do,  that  we  ought  to 
spend  our  hours  as  a  miser  pays  out  gold,  giving  none 
without  value  received.  And  to  think  that  minister 
was  not  willing  to  allow  those  bright  young  women  to 
read  Shakespeare,  the  one  transcendent  genius  !  It  is 
shameful !  I  have  a  mind  to  found  a  new  religion,  without 
a  creed.  Life  shall  be  fully  employed.  Labor,  study, 
country  walks,  poetry,  music,  and  art,  with  love  to  God 
and  man,  all  together  will  make  life  worth  living." 

"  It  is  not  so  much  a  new  religion  that  is  wanted," 
said  Wentworth,  "as  common-sense,  broad  culture,  and 
liberality." 

The  subsequent  history  of  the  young  people  who 
have  engaged  our  attention  does  not  concern  the  prog- 
ress of  Ouabbin,  and  may  be  briefly  dismissed. 

In  the  course  of  the  year  the  Rev.  James  Stowe  was' 
married  to  Miss  Eliza  Gi'ant,  and  the  pair  set  out  upon 
their  long  journey  to  Asia. 

IMr.  Stewart  returned,  as  he  promised,  the  following 
spring,  and  made  numerous  sketches,  besides  one  lovely 
portrait  of  a  young  lady.  He  was  courteously  received 
by  Mr.  Grant,  who  had  taken  pains  to  make  inquiries 
in  New  York  as  to  the  painter's  character  and  social 
standing.  In  the  course  of  the  summer  Lois  became 
Mrs.  Stewart,  but  not  until  she  had  told  her  lover  of 
her  being  brought  down  the  mountain,  and  of  her 
dramatic  parting  from  Herman   Field. 

Miss  Alma  Wicks,  after  remaining  single  for  a  num- 
ber of  vears,  married  a  man  S(jmewhat  older  than  lier- 
self,  in  a  neighboring  town.  She  was  a  pattern  of 
motherhootl,  adored  by  her  husband  antl  chikh-en,  held 


340  QUABBIN 

in  honor  in  the  church,  and  the  friend  of  all  who  needed 
help  and  sympathy. 

David  Wentworth  finished  his  studies  with  honor, 
and  having  grown  more  and  more  reluctant  to  bind 
himself  to  a  creed,  renounced  theology,  fitted  himself 
as  an  instructor  in  English  literature,  and  became  a 
professor  in  a  Western  university.  At  forty  he  was 
still  unmarried. 

It  is  not  to  be  supposed  that  Quabbin  had  reached  its 
possibilities  in  the  time  of  the  good  Robert  ;  it  had 
been  merelv  set  on  a  moral  and  intellectual  foundation, 
and  was  in  a  condition  to  receive  the  benefit  of  the  im- 
provements which  time  was  to  bring.  Its  institutions, 
like  its  shade-trees,  were  undeveloped.  The  subsequent 
years,  which  have  covered  its  dwellings  with  foliage,  so 
that  from  the  hill  the  village  seems  to  be  sunk  in  a 
*  billowy  sea  of  green,  have  also  brought  new  and  unex- 
pected advantages  to  the  people.  Town  and  country  are 
in  substantial  accord.  The  public  schools  have  been  re- 
organized and  graded  ;  and  now,  with  able  and  permanent 
teachers,  efficient  supervision,  and  pleasant  surround- 
ings, are  probably  as  good  as  they  can  be  made  for  the 
present  population.  The  school  of  the  highest  grade 
receives  pupils  from  all  parts  of  the  town,  and  the  most 
distant  of  them  are  brought  in  wagons  at  the  public  ex- 
pense. The  roads  have  been  greatly  improved  ;  the 
common  and  most  of  the  private  yards  are  neatly  kept, 
and  sidewalks  are  extending  from  the  centre  in  various 
directions.  The  meeting-house  has  a  large  and  fine- 
toned  organ.  A  substantial  town  hall  has  been  built, 
and  in  it  is  maintained  a  free  public  library  of  varied  and 
solid  excellence. 


ANOTHER    TEA-PARTY  3^1 

The  chief  feature  in  the  modern  church  is  the  in- 
creased share  of  labor  undertaken  by  the  laity.  In  the 
old  times  the  brethren  assisted  in  the  Sunday-school 
and  in  the  prayer-meetings,  but  now  they  are  organized 
in  disciplined  bands,  Orthodox  and  Methodists  to- 
gether, and  go  out  on  missionary  tours  in  the  outlying 
districts,  and  in  adjoining  towns.  An  amusing  story  is 
told,  that  one  of  these  Ouabbin  bands,  on  its  way  for 
the  first  time  to  a  meetino'  to  be  held  on  a  Sunday  after- 
noon  in  a  hill  town-,  came  upon  a  farmer  who  was 
killinsf  and  dressino:  ho2:s,  and  another  who  with  his 
men  was  making  cider.  Seeing  the  unlooked-for  inva- 
sion of  the  church  militant,  the  Sabbath-breakers  took 
to  their  heels,  and  remained  hid  until  daylight  was  past. 
Generally  the  people  so  visited  receive  the  Christian 
workers  kindly,  and  often  return  the  compliment. 

How  strange  all  this  would  have  appeared  in  the  time 
of  Joshua  I.  !  Equally  strange  to  him  and  his  people 
would  have  appeared  the  antiphonal  reading  of  the 
psalm  in  the  morning  service,  and  the  profuse  floral 
decoration  of  the  pulpit  and  communion-table.  The 
disciples  and  contemporaries  of  Cotton  Mather,  or  of 
Jonathan  Edwards,  would  find  little  to  please  them  in 
the  worship  or  sermons  at  Ouabbin  or  elsewhere  in 
Massachusetts. 

Ouabbin  has  some  right  to  self-gratulation.  Few 
towns  of  its  size  —  about  one  thousand  souls  —  have 
done  so  much  ;  but  it  remains  quiet  and  modest  :  the 
only  pDeans  heard  are  from  the  song-birds  which  have 
repeopled  the  orchards  and  copses,  and  fill  the  air  with 
delight  all  day.  With  morning  newspapers,  the  tele- 
graph, and  three  daily  mails,  Ouabbin  belongs  to  the 
great   world  ;    but  it   breakfasts   before   seven   o'clock, 


342  QUA  B  BIN 

dines  without  ceremony  at  one,  and  goes  to  bed  after 
an  earlv  supper.  Comfort  and  content  lodge  in  every 
house,  for  there  is  not  a  pauper  in  the  region.  The 
sunlight  nowhere  lies  fairer  than  on  its  three  hills,  and 
the  heat  of  a  midsummer's  day  is  follow^ed  by  the  cool 
south-west  wind  that  sweeps  up  the  valley  in  the  even- 
in  l;-. 

Then  let  the  elderly  people  say  ''  Haow,"  if  they 
prefer  that  locution  ;  and  let  their  thoughts  be  bounded 
bv  their  daily  vision  ;  for  as  good  English  is  heard  in 
the  pulpit  and  in  the  schools,  and  as  a  well-chosen  and 
growing  library  is  to  furnish  the  coming  generation 
with  knowledsfe  and  broad  ideas,  the  future  of  Ouabbin 
is  assured. 


LITERATURE  343 


CHAPTER     XXXIII 

LITERATURE 

There  are  familiar  facts  which  at  times  strike  us 
with  a  sudden  sense  of  novelty  or  strangeness. 

The  name  of  New  Eno'land  sug^o'ests  a  modern 
origin  ;  and  it  is  sometimes  with  surprise,  as  if  his- 
tory or  arithmetic  must  be  at  fault,  that  we  find  the 
date  of  its  settlement  to  have  been  as  long  ago  as  the 
early  part  of  the  reign  of  Charles  I.  Then,  when  we 
look  back  along  the  mighty  course  of  literature,  and 
think  of  the  great  names  in  the  Victorian  era,  in  that 
of  the  Georges,  of  Queen  Anne,  of  William  and  Mary, 
and  of  the  Stuarts,  we  see  that  the  largest  part  of 
English  poetry,  history,  fiction,  and  essays,  has  been 
produced  since  the  Pilgrims  sailed  from  Southampton. 
So,  during  the  two  centuries  while  the  Puritans  were 
vanquishing  Antinomians,  Baptists,  and  Quakers,  or 
recording  the  miraculous  providences  of  God  in  favor 
of  his  exiled  servants,  or  reiterating  and  fortifying  the 
scheme  of  salvation  according  to  Calvin,  or  combatting 
demons  by  the  exposure  of  witchcraft,  there  appeared 
in  the  British  Isles  the  poets  from  Milton  to  Tennyson, 
historians  from  Clarendon  to  Carlyle,  novelists  from 
Fielding  to  Thackeray,  essayists  from  Addison  to 
Macaulav,  as  well  as  other  men  of  iienius   unclassified. 

In  the  New  World  tliere  was  no  lileralure  of  uencial 


344  QUAE  BIN 

interest,  aside  from  the  discussion  of  American  inde- 
pendence, until  Bryant's  "Thanatopsis"  and  Irving's 
*'  Sketch  Book  "  appeared.  In  spite  of  the  many  obvious 
reasons  that  have  been  given  for  this  protracted  barren- 
ness, the  fact  remains  a  matter  of  wonder  ;  for  many 
of  the  colonists  were  able  and  liberally  educated 
men. 

Genius  is  seldom  equally  distributed  as  to  time  or 
place  by  any  system  of  averages,  else  there  should 
have  been  some  few  striking  works  in  Boston  or  in 
New  England  in  the  course  of  two  centuries.  But  no  ; 
their  poetry  ranges  between  the  platitudes  of  the  Bay 
Psalm  Book  and  the  painful  sixteenth  century  verse  of 
Anne  Bradstreet  ;  their  annals  are  without  literary  art, 
and  their  discourses  void  of  almost  everything  but 
energy  and  piety.  Excepting  the  frisky  and  pedantic 
Cotton  Mather,  their  w^riters  seem  to  have  benumbed 
whatever  they  touched. 

Water  in  a  flowing  current  retains  its  life  and  fresh- 
ness, but  left  in  a  hollow  or  slough,  away  from  move- 
ment, it  becomes  stagnant.  The  colony  of  the-  Bay 
was  like  a  solitary  pool  which  no  angel  came  to 
trouble. 

Whether  genius  be  the  rare  flower  of  intellect  and 
feeling,  or,  as  some  say,  only  ''  a  splendid  disease,"  its 
manifestations  are  capricious  and  inscrutable.  The 
speed  of  a  well-descended  colt  can  be  predicted  from 
the  time  it  is  foaled  ;  but  who  will  venture  to  say  of  a 
babe,  no  matter  of  what  parentage,  "This  child  is  to 
become  a  poet  "  1  A  fond  father,  who  had  allowed  his 
son  to  study  music  instead  of  going  into  business,  said 
apologetically,  **  Why  isn't  it  a  good  thing  to  have  a 
Mozart    or    a    Be-tho-ven     in    the     family  ? "       If    the 


LITER  A  TURE  345 

singer's  wish  could  make  the  song,  the  top  of  Par- 
nassus, as  Lowell  observes,  might  be  the  most  thickly 
settled  part  of  the  country. 

The  soil  and  atmosphere  of  Quabbin,  at  least  up  to 
the  time  of  our  narration,  must  have  been  unsuitable 
for  rearing  a  poet  or  artist.  There  was  in  progress 
some  mental  cultivation  and  taste  for  the  beautiful,  but 
no  freedom  or  expansion  ;  mind  was  constrained  to  act 
in  grooves  and  upon  practical  themes.  I^ut  it  is  inter- 
esting to  know  that  in  a  similar  small  town,  some  forty 
miles  west,  and  under  almost  the  same  conditions, 
Bryant  had  already  written  poems,  which  his  father,  a 
country  doctor,  carried  in  his  odorous  saddle-bags,  and 
read  with  tears  of  honest  pride  in  the  houses  of  his 
patients.  The  youth  had  been  named  William  Cullen, 
after  an  eminent  Scottish  medical  writer,  and  perhaps 
with  a  paternal  intention  ;  but  the  wish,  if  it  existed, 
was  not  fulfilled  ;  it  was  a  poet,  and  not  a  doctor,  who 
had  come  into  the  world. 

About  the  same  time  Emerson  was  occupied  with 
philosophic  thoughts  tinged  with  poetry.  He  had 
already  (1837)  delivered  his  address  upon  the  American 
Scholar,  in  which  was  a  definite  renunciation  of  depend- 
ence upon  Old  World  thought  and  models.  Quabbin 
had  never  heard  of  him,  and  did  not  hear  of  him  until 
long  afterward  ;  but  no  literary  contemporary,  whether 
friend  or  foe,  escaped  his  influence.  All  weather-vanes 
high  enough  to  be  touched  by  celestial  airs  pointed  to 
Concord.  The  ideas  and  even  the  lanjruaire  of  the 
time  bore  witness  of  the  genius  that  stamped  its  fresh 
phrases  upon  the  memories  of  men.  His  tlirect  influ- 
ence never  affected  Calvinists,  and  it  is  not  at  all 
probable  that  the  good  Robert  I\'.  ever   read   a  line   of 


346  QUABBIN 

his  essays  or  poems  ;  but  he  was  an  abiding  force, 
and  affected,  directly  or  indirectly,  a  generation  of 
writers,  so  that  people  of  ev^en  moderate  attainments, 
and  in  obscure  places,  were  unconsciously  his  disciples. 
Hawthorne  was  just  beginning  his  career  with  the 
simple  yet  exquisite  tales  which  were  the  precursors  of 
his  romances.  They  were  written  for  magazines,  and 
attracted  very  little  attention.  Unaffected  simpHcity 
is  not  often  understood  at  first,  because  most  people 
think  that  genius  is  shown  by  glitter  and  point.  Time 
and  the  study  of  classic  models  are  necessary  for  the 
due  appreciation  of  such  perfect  work.  If  Hawthorne 
had  any  readers  in  Quabbin  before  the  publication  of 
the  "Scarlet  Letter,"  which  is  doubtful,  he  would  have 
been  considered  as  quite  inferior  to  N.  P.  Willis,  the 
idol  of  romantic  readers  of  that  day.  In  his  stories  there 
was  vigor  and  dash  ;  his  heroines  were  brilliant  and 
impossible,  like  their  pictures  in  the  annuals  and  ladies' 
magazines  ;  nature  sat  to  him  in  full  dress,  and  his 
triumphant  heroes  recoiled  before  no  obstacles.  In  his 
verse  was  thought  to  be  blended  the  passion  of  Byron, 
the  sweetness  of  Moore,  and  the  magic  of  Scott.  And 
his  sacred  poems,  easy  amplifications  of  biblical  narra- 
tives, how  they  were  copied,  quoted,  and  declaimed, 
even  in  little  places  like  Quabbin  !  For  some  years  his 
popularity  was  almost  universal.  In  this  early  period 
he  was  the  writer  who  was  always  named  first  ;  some 
few  critics  rated  him  more  justly,  but  meanwhile,  his 
supremacy  was  seldom  questioned.  Had  a  youth  writ- 
ten verses,  it  was  to  Willis  they  were  sent  for  an  en- 
couraging word.  It  was  to  Willis  that  most  literary 
novices  applied  for  advice,  and  seldom  in  vain;  for 
never  was  a  reigning  favorite  more  amiable  and  helpful. 


LITER  A  TURK  347 

Longfellow,  too,  was  being  heard  of.  When  the 
"Voices  of  the  Night"  appeared  (1839),  the  impres- 
sion upon  cultivated  readers  was  solemn  and  thrilling, 
as  well  as  tender  and  delightful.  It  w^as  the  first  time 
in  America  that  such  sustained  melody,  such  delicate 
and  spiritual  thought,  and  such  touching  lessons,  had 
been  united  in  verse.  It  was  an  uplifting  sensation  to 
feel  that  after  so  long  a  time  a  poet  had  arisen  who 
might  become  the  Voice  of  the  New  World.  '*  The 
human  heart  ,"  says  Landor,  "  is  the  world  of  poetry  ; 
the  imagination  is  only  its  atmosphere."  In  "The  Psalm 
of  Life,"  "  The  Footsteps  of  Angels,"  and  "  The  Be- 
leaguered City,"  there  seemed  to  be  embodied  w^hat  men 
love,  —  the  poetry  of  their  own  lives.  Probably  no  poet 
ever  had  more  immediate  and  loyal  recognition.  In 
our  later  times,  when  the  heart  has  yielded  to  the 
brain,  the  notion  of  poetry  is  something  in  which  Kant, 
Pascal,  and  Omar  Khayyam  have  an  equal  share.  Sim- 
ple lays  of  human  feeling  are  banished  to  the  nursery, 
whither  their  old-fashioned  lovers  must  go. 

Whittier,  also,  had  begun  to  write,  though  not  in  the 
free  and  large-hearted  style  which  he  afterward  attained. 
But  some  of  his  Indian  legends,  his  Quaker  ballads,  and 
his  burning  appeals  for  the  slave,  had  already  impressed 
men  of  liberal  minds  and  generous  sympathies.  At 
that  time,  as  has  been  stated,  Quabbin  had  but  one 
zealous  anti-slavery  man,  and  he  read  the  poems  of 
Whittier,  as  they  appeared  in  the  Liberator  and  the 
Emancipator,  with  ever-increasing  admiration. 

Fitz  Greene  Halleck  was  already  known  by  his 
beautiful  poem  on  Burns,  and  by  his  tribute  to  his 
friend  J.  R.  Drake  ;  and  Drake  was  known  by  liis  "Cul- 
prit Fay,"  a  piece  of  fancy  which  greatly  pleased  youth- 


348  QUAD  BIN 

fill  minds.  J.  G.  Pcrcival  was  remembered  as  the  author 
of  the  "  Coral  Grove  "  and  other  poems  copied  into  the 
school-books. 

In  all  these  instances  an  acquaintance  with  the  new 
authors  came  primarily  to  school-boys  through  their 
reading-lessons.  The  "  xA.merican  First-Class  Book," 
compiled  by  the  Rev.  John  Pierpont,  himself  a  poet, 
was  the  first  and  most  effective  instructor  in  modern 
literature  ;  and,  as  his  compilation  was  in  the  hands  of 
all  the  youth,  he  did  more  to  cultivate  the  literary  taste 
of  New  England  than  all  the  magazines,  and  all  other 
agencies  together. 

Cooper  and  other  early  novelists  were  only  names  in 
Ouabbin,  for  obvious  reasons. 

The  brilliant  and  polished  Everett,  who  was  for  four 
years  Governor  of  the  State,  during  the  second  min- 
ister's reign,  appeared,  from  the  standpoint  of  Ouabbin, 
as  one  might  imagine  an  ancient  orator  in  classic  robes, 
who  had  been  turned  to  marble  and  pedestalled  for  the 
admiration  of  posterity.  But  Ouabbin  knew  only  his 
utterances  in  public  life  ;  it  did  not  know  his  literary 
essays,  nor  the  animated  part  he  had  played  in  the 
awakening  of  Harvard  College. 

George  Bancroft,  who  had  been  a  teacher  in  a  town 
not  very  far  from  Ouabbin,  had,  at  the  time  of  our  nar- 
ration, begun  his  life-long  studies  in  American  history, 
and  had  published  his  first  three  volumes.  The  time 
had  not  come  when  a  Democrat  could  make  any  deep 
or  favorable  impression  upon  the  people  of  Western 
Massachusetts,  nor  when  a  history  based  upon  the 
ideas  of  Jefferson  would  be  received  as  authentic 
among  the  sons  of  Federalists.  It  is  unlikely  that  he 
had    either   admirers   or   readers   in  Ouabbin.     It  was 


LITER  A  TURE  349 

early  for  the  appreciation  of  a  philosophic  history  of 
America  ;  in  fact,  the  time  has  hardly  come  even  now. 

It  would  be  expecting  much  to  look  for  any  acquaint- 
ance with  Prescott's  "  Ferdinand  and  Isabella  "  (pub- 
lished in  1837),  i^  ^  small  town  so  far  away  from  the 
literary  centre.  It  was  an  event  of  some  importance 
for  the  capital,  as  it  was  the  first  historical  work  of  a 
high  order  produced  in  America ;  ^  and  its  thorough- 
ness, no  less  than  its  form  and  finish,  were  acknowl- 
edged by  competent  judges  everywhere.  It  was  a  most 
encouraging  sign  of  the  times,  and  added  to  the  light 
that  was  beginning  to  illuminate  the  State  and  nation. 

Lydia  Maria  Child  had  published  two  novels,  and 
some  works  upon  education  and  domestic  economy. 
In  one  of  the  novels  were  supposed  addresses  by 
James  Otis  and  the  celebrated  Whitefield,  which  were 
everywhere  copied,  and  often  believed  to  be  genuine. 
The  patriotic  speech  attributed  to  Otis  was  often 
declaimed  in  schools. 

Much  inspiration  came  to  the  youth  of  New  Eng- 
land from  the  orations  of  Daniel  Webster.  Their 
(most  striking  passages  were  in  the  school-books,  and 
were  admired  more  than  any  other  specimens  of  rhet- 
oric. The  oration  at  Plymouth  in  1820,  upon  the  two 
hundredth  anniversary  of  the  landing  of  the  Pilgrims  ; 
those  at  Bunker's  Hill  upon  laying  the  corner-stone, 
and  upon  completing  the  monument ;  and  the  cele- 
brated reply  to  Hayne  of  South  Carolina  in  the  U.  S. 
Senate,  furnished  the  most  brilliant  and  admired  selec- 
tions. Webster  had  formed  his  stvle  by  reading  the 
Bible  and   Bunyan  ;    seldom  was  purer    or    more    idio- 

1  Bancroft's  work,  dealing  largely  with  British  treatment  of  the  colonies, 
though  "of  a  high  order,"  is  controversial  for  English  critics. 


0!) 


o  QUABBIN 


matic  English  spoken  than  his;  but  he  had  a  glowing 
imagination,  and  great  depth  of  feeling,  and,  as  he 
went  on  speaking,  his  simple  phrases  became  ample 
and  majestic  ;  his  figures,  in  which  he  was  a  consum- 
mate artist,  were  more  dazzling  ;  and  before  he  finished 
he  always  raised  his  auditors  to  his  own  high  level. 

It  is  said  that  such  orations  are  out  of  date,  but  it  is 
equally  true  that  no  such  orator  has  since  been  heard. 
Whoever  will  read  any  of  the  familiar  and  well-worn 
passages  understandingly  and  with  due  emphasis,  and 
will  endeavor  to  keep  in  mind  the  impressive  scene  in 
which  the  oration  was  originally  delivered,  will  find 
the  spirit  of  the  author  gaining  hold  of  him,  and  when 
he  comes  to  the  end  will  confess  to  having  a  lump  in 
his  throat. 

The  literary  periodicals  of  this  time  (about  1840) 
were  generally  feeble  and  superficial.  Some  of  them 
were  largely  made  up  of  articles  "borrowed"  from 
British  magazines  ;  and  their  original  contributors 
were  poorly  paid,  when  paid  at  all.  Five  dollars  was 
not  considered  a  contemptible  sum  to  offer  a  writer  ; 
some  of  Hawthorne's  early  tales  brought  him  no  more. 
In  looking  over  these  magazines  we  get  an  impression 
that  is  both  painful  and  comic.  Among  the  inapti- 
tudes and  the  crude  attempts  at  fine  writing,  there  are 
occasional  gems  from  poets  who  were  just  becoming 
known  ;  but  it  is  evident  the  number  of  cultivated 
readers  was  small,  and  the  managers  strove  to  attract 
the  public  by  means  of  fashion-plates,  meretricious 
engravings,  and  other  devices. 

The  progress  of  American  literature,  and  of  literary 
taste  among  readers,  was  exceedingly  slow,  —  almost 
imperceptible.     Excepting  the  eminent  preachers  and 


ff-f 


^J  ^'^' 


''^'l 


Playmates    i;v    ihi.    11a\>.i\c-k 


LITERATURE  35 1 

the  public  orators,  few  literary  men  had  any  following, 
or  any  serious  consideration.  British  authors  held 
the  field,  and  it  was  not  supposed  they  would  ever 
have  successful  American  rivals.  The  history  of  this 
development  would  take  us  far  beyond  the  limits  of 
time  and  space  proper  for  the  story  of  Ouabbin  ;  but 
even  fifty  years  ago  the  change  was  in  progress,  and 
the  faint  streaks  of  dawn  have  since  brightened  into  a 
still  advancing  day. 

Of  the  difficulties  which  sixty  years  ago  stood  in 
the  way  of  acquiring  a  fair  knowledge  of  literature, 
enough  has  been  said  in  former  chapters.  For  the 
elder  people  of  Ouabbin  the  great  authors  were  only 
luminous  names,  —  mere  points  of  light,  distant  and 
unknown,  like  stars.  By  stated  reading-lessons,  and 
by  the  efforts  of  a  few  enlightened  schoolmasters,  the 
younger  generation  got  some  notion  of  the  power  of 
thought  and  imagination,  and  the  distinction  of  style 
of  the  masters  of  English.  But  a  general  acquaint- 
ance with  literature  is  not  to  be  expected  until  after 
education  has  been  universal,  and  society  has  acquired  a 
literary  tone  ;  nor,  indeed,  until  ample  public  or  private 
libraries  have  been  established  and  used. 

The  qualities  of  literary  works  can  only  be  estimated 
after  repeated  comparisons,  and  after  free  interchange 
of  opinions  with  other  readers.  When  men  come  to 
see  that  literature  and  art  are  the  only  enduring  titles 
to  renown,  and  that  merely  commercial  nations  liavc  no 
place  in  history,  then  the  great  poets,  thinkers,  and 
artists  loom  up  like  mountains.  People  who  have 
taken  up  reading  systematically,  or  who  read  much, 
even  cursorily,  soon  recognize  the  fact  that  there  is  no 
pleasure  like  it,  and  that  it  is  almost  the  only  distinc- 
tion between  t.ne  wise  and  fools. 


352  QUAE  BIX 

After  the  earning  of  one's  livelihooc],  the  care  for 
religion,  jniblic  order,  and  common  schools,  there  is 
nothing  so  important  as  the  general  circulation  of 
well-chosen  books.  This  truth  gradually  dawned  upon 
Ouabbin,  and  in  recent  years,  as  has  been  stated,  a 
public  library  has  been  set  up  in  its  town  hall. 

It  was  not  the  fortune  of  such  a  small  town  to  have 
any  part  in  the  literary  awakening  referred  to  in  this 
chapter ;  it  was  much  if  some  of  its  people  could  ap- 
preciate the  new  and  reviving  spirit  which  was  abroad. 

The  becrinnimr  of  a  native  literature  was  in  one 
aspect  an  offshoot  from  the  parent  stock ;  and,  in  an- 
other, a  new  and  distinct  growth.  American  literature, 
which  is  a  fact,  and  not  simply  a  future  possibility,  is 
connected  with  its  venerable  parent  by  indissoluble  ties. 
Physical  barriers,  such  as  the  ocean,  do  not  interfere 
with  the  intimate  union  of  a  dual  literature  any  more 
than  they  separate  spiritual  existences.  In  its  origin  and 
traditions  American  literature  is  necessarily  English  to 
the  core ;  but  in  time  its  material  characteristics, 
springing  from  soil,  climate,  and  vegetation,  together 
with  the  virile  spirit  of  democratic  institutions,  and 
new  tendencies  coming  from  the  mixture  of  races,  gave 
it  such  distinctive  qualities  that  the  alma  viater  might 
hesitate  about  recognizing  her  offspring. 

Few  of  these  considerations  had  occurred  to  the 
people  of  Ouabbin,  or  of  Massachusetts,  sixty  years 
ago.  Bobolinks  and  catbirds  were  singing  merrily  in 
meadows  and  bushes,  and  golden  orioles  hung  their 
'*  hammock  nests  "  at  the  tips  of  elm-tree  boughs  ;  but 
in  tlie  acceptc^d  poetry  one  read  only  of  British  larks, 
thrushes,  and  robins.  The  hillsides  were  rosy  with 
acres  of  laurel ;    azaleas  brightened  and  perfumed  the 


LITERATURE  353 

river-banks  ;  the  cardinal  flower  flamed  in  swampy 
nooks  ;  in  the  spring  woods  the  mayflower  crept  out 
with  its  pink-and-white  blooms  from  under  the  melting 
snow  ;  but  all  these  indigenous  beauties  were  unsung. 
Country  life,  seen  too  near,  was  coarse  and  vulgar, 
because  no  poet  had  looked  at  it  with  the  Claude 
Lorraine  glass  of  genius. 

Under  equal  laws,  a  well-descended  and  well-taught 
people  were  making  progress  in  civilization,  and  in 
establishing  a  national  character ;  and  there  was  no 
hint  of  it  in  literature,  except  in  the  tasteless  declama- 
tion of  popular  orators.  But  all  these  things  were  to 
appear  in  good  time,  in  romance,  poem,  and  essay. 
Western  grapes  might  spring  from  imported  vines,  but 
the  racy  flavor  and  perfume  drawn  from  the  soil  of  the 
New  World  was  sure  to  be  manifest  in  the  ripened 
clusters. 


54  QUAE  BIN 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

THE  RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE 

When  a  new  ship  glides  on  its  ways  into  the  water, 
the  least  imaginative  of  the  spectators  lets  his  mind 
run  forward  upon  its  course  over  oceans,  up  to  the 
time  when  it  shall  sail  no  more.  Will  it  2:0  from 
haven  to  haven  in  safety  ?  Or  will  it  be  buffeted  by 
winds  and  waves  until  it  founders  and  plunges  into 
the  depths  ?  Will  its  ribs  and  keel  lie  bleaching  on  a 
coral  island  ?  or  will  it  float,  waterlogged,  in  the  track 
of  navigation  ?  How  small  the  chance  that  it  will 
return  to  anchor  in  the  river-mouth  where  it  was 
launched  ! 

A  youth  who  sets  out  from  his  native  town  may 
have  as  many  good  wishes  as  follow  a  newly  launched 
vessel,  but  no  voyage  is  more  perilous  or  problematical 
than  the  voyage  of  life.  If  the  native  should  return 
crestfallen  and  despondent,  he  may  perhaps  be  com- 
forted by  sympathy  from  the  friends  of  his  youth  ;  but 
if  he  holds  his  own  while  abroad,  and  needs  nothing 
from  those  he  left  behind,  he  may  get  an  indifferent 
welcome.  This  is  not  to  say  that  townsfolk  bear 
malice  toward  a  native  who  has  won  a  place  in  the 
world  ;  but  the  Scripture  saying  remains  true,  that 
a  prophet  is  without  hon(jr  among  kindred  and  in  his 
birthplace,  at  least  until  the  generation  that  knew  him 


THE   RETURN  OF   THE   NATIVE  355 

in  boyhood  is  passing  away.  The  townsfolk  may  re- 
member too  vividly  the  day  of  small  things,  — the  boy- 
ish scrapes  and  peccadilloes,  the  grime  of  some  menial 
service,  or  the  undignified  early  associations. 

A  native  who  contemplates  returning  to  end  his 
days  among  his  kindred,  will  do  so,  if  he  is  wise,  while 
he  is  still  in  the  vigor  of  manhood,  and  before  failing 
memory  and  other  infirmities  make  him  a  dazed  and 
dumb  creature,  and  before  those  who  should  know  him, 
and  whom  he  should  know,  are  ready  to  look  upon  him  as 
a  stranger.  The  ties  of  old  friendship  may  be  broken, 
or  may  be  stretched  and  atrophied  ;  in  either  case  the 
genial  current  passes  to  and  fro  no  more.  A  group  of 
silent,  apathetic,  indifferent  townsfolk  gives  to  a 
native  a  strange  chill  ;  he  would  be  more  at  ease  with 
the  ghosts  of  all  their  fathers  and  grandfathers. 

If  he  could  adapt  himself  again  to  the  old  life,  and 
step  back  with  the  fresh  feelings  of  youth  into  the 
society  he  left,  that  would  be  a  delight  ;  but  in  most 
cases  he  might  as  well  attempt  to  fit  his  broad  shoul- 
ders with  the  boy's  coat  which  his  fond  mother  had 
saved  as  a  souvenir. 

While  memory  is  active,  and  faces  come  to  him  as 
they  did  when  he  played  and  fought  with  his  school- 
fellows, he  has  an  unutterable  pleasure  in  recalling  the 
beautiful  days.  The  hills  smile  upon  him  as  the\-lic  in 
sunshine  ;  the  swift  river  is  gurgling  for  him  under 
alders  and  vines  ;  for  him  the  gilded  vane  is  shining  on 
the  steeple  as  it  points  to  fair  weather.  If  he  could 
only  annihilate  the  interval  of  his  absence,  and  forget 
what  he  learned  and  unlearned  in  the  world  witliout  ! 
But  he  comes  back  a  changed  man  ;  politics,  finance, 
professional  studies,  art,   and  literature,  some  of  them 


356  QUABBhW 

liave  been  possessing  him  and  overgrowing  him,  as  a 
coiUng  parasite  grapples  and  masters  a  tree.  The  free 
and  simple-hearted  youth  has  been  merged  in  the 
absorbed  and  preoccupied  man,  and  between  him  and 
his  old  life  the  way  has  been  closed  up.  As  he  looks 
back,  the  pictures  of  memory  are  touched  with  an 
unreal  splendor,  and  are  as  distant  as  fairyland.  In 
the  depths  of  his  heart  he  loves  the  old  town,  and  has 
nothing  but  kind  feelings  for  the  old  people,  even  for 
those  whom  he  knew  least.  How  gladly  he  would 
renew  old  friendships  and  intimacies,  if  it  were  pos- 
sible ;  but  circumstances  are  often  stronger  than 
inclination. 

A  popular  writer  once  deplored  the  tendency  among 
literary  men  to  hold  themselves  aloof  from  the  com- 
mon people.  Literary  influence,  he  thought,  liko 
Christianity,  ought  to  be  diffused  among  all  classes; 
and  how  could  this  be,  he  plaintively  asked,  if  writers 
and  thinkers  should  continue  to  isolate  themselves } 
Like  many  plausible  suggestions  ma.de  by  impulsive 
men,  this  is  wholly  illusory  and  incapable  of  realiza- 
tion. Like  consorts  only  with  like,  and  without  some 
community  of  thought,  habit,  taste,  or  purpose,  no  inti- 
macy is  possible.  The  training  of  a  poet,  critic,  or  man 
of  science,  necessarily  isolates  him,  because  he  is  occu- 
pied with  ideas  which  the  uneducated  cannot  be  made 
to  comprehend.  The  vocabulary  alone  is  an  effectual 
barrier.  A  beginner  with  Herbert  Spencer  or  Huxley 
has  first  to  master  a  new  language,  and  then  to  become 
familiar  with  a  world  of  new  ideas. 

Writers  and  thinkers  in  their  hours  of  leisure  must 
seek  the  society  of  those  with  whom  they  are  in  sym- 
pathy,   and    those    from   whom    they   will    receive    the 


THE   RETURN  OF   THE  NATIVE  357 

stimulus  which  comes  in  the  clash  of  mind  with  mind. 
The  intellect  is  never  so  active,  original  and  forgctive, 
as  when  it  feels  the  shock  from  collision  with  another 
of  kindred  temper.  The  philosopher  cannot  translate 
his  ideas  into  the  English  of  the  field  and  the  workshop. 
In  literature  and  science  there  are  middlemen  engaged 
in  letting  ladders  down  from  the  thought  of  Darwin, 
Emerson,  Browning,  Comte,  and  Hegel  ;  and  even  after 
one  descent  other  ladders  are  often  necessary  to  land 
any  lucid  and  comprehensible  ideas  upon  the  lower  level 
of  the  unread. 

A  client  was  told  in  court  by  Rufus  Choate  that  judg- 
ment was  given  in  his  favor  ''on  demurrer."  The  client, 
who  had  expected  to  witness  a  display  of  oratory  by  the 
great  advocate,  was  disappointed  to  see  the  case  ended 
after  a  short  and  (to  him)  unintelligible  colloquy  with 
the  presiding  judge  ;  and  when  going  out  of  the  chamber 
he  exclaimed,  "  I  don't  understand  about  this  demur- 
rer."—  "The  Almighty  never  intended  you  should," 
said  Choate. 

When  two  men  meet  for  the  first  time,  the  x,  or 
unknown  quantity,  representing  the  studies,  pursuits, 
tastes,  and  habits  of  each,  is  the  subject  of  curious 
reciprocal  inquiry  ;  and  there  ensues  a  series  of  tenta- 
tive equations  made  on  the  one  side  and  the  other,  until 
approximations  have  been  reached. 

Here  is  a  man,  for  instance,  who  makes  mathemati- 
cal calculations  in  molecular  physics, — the  architecture 
of  the  universe  of  atoms  ;  or  he  estimates  the  solar 
energy,  or  computes  the  totality  of  force  effectuated 
by  winds  and  waves  around  the  globe.  These  \ast 
trains  of  thought  and  speculation  occup}'  a  large 
part    of    his  interior  mental   space,   if    such  an   e.xpres- 


358  QUABBIN 

sioii  may  be  allowed  ;  yet  he  may  talk  agreeably  upon 
politics,  poetry,  or  art,  and  a  stranger  might  not  suspect 
the  existence  of  that  interior  laboratory  whose  bulk 
almost  equals  the  sum  of  his  being.  Such  a  man  might 
seldom  speak  upon  the  themes  which  occupy  him,  for 
the  reason  that  few  would  comprehend  him.  His  inter- 
course with  mankind  would  therefore  be  upon  superfi- 
cial things  ;  and  in  his  case  the  x  would  be  huge,  and 
his  totality,  minus  the  x,  a  disappointing  remainder. 

Many  a  man  carries  about  an  x  of  more  or  less  mag- 
nitude, —  something  for  which  he  lives ;  and  few, 
beside  egotists  and  other  bores,  let  the  secret  be 
known  except  to  closest  friends.  Lower  down  in  the 
scale  of  intellectuality,  unless  it  is  among  criminals, 
the  X  becomes  insignificant.  When  two  uneducated 
farmers  meet  they  readily  unpack  their  respective  wal- 
lets. The  weather,  the  crops,  prices,  wages,  and  taxes, 
are  all  their  intellectual  counters,  and  an  exchange  is 
easily  made.  In  like  manner  two  gossips  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  overhauling  each  other's  mail-bag. 

Now,  if  a  man  who  is  almost  wholly  absorbed  by  some 
study  meets  another  whose  intellectual  outfit  is  like  a 
native  African's  wardrobe,  on  what  terms  can  there  be 
an  intimacy,  or  more  than  a  passing  recognition  }  If 
there  were  to  be  a  closer  relation,  it  must  be  that  of 
teacher  and  pupil,  which  is  seldom  agreeable. 

So,  if  the  native  has  remained  long  enough  away  to 
have  become  a  changed  man,  whether  for  better  or 
worse,  there  will  be  difficulties  in  the  way  of  resuming 
old  intimacies.  The  townsfolk  are  likely  to  misunder- 
stand him,  and  to  misinterpret  his  conduct,  even  in  the 
most  trivial  particulars  ;  for  they  do  not  know  the 
nature  and  power  of  the  x  which  dominates  him. 


THE   RETURN  OE   THE  NATIVE  359 

Few  of  the  inhabitants  of  any  small  village  can  have 
a  very  wide  experience  of  life ;  and  it  is  not  impossible 
for  them  to  mistake  slang  for  wit,  and  to  be  impressed 
by  demonstrative  manners  and  dress,  which,  with  a 
fuller  knowledge  of  the  world,  they  would  at  once 
recognize  as  vulgar.  But  though  the  young  people 
may  be  dazzled  by  jewellery,  and  may  admire  clothes 
of  eccentric  pattern,  yet  it  does  not  take  long  for  the 
elders  to  ''size  up"  an  ill-bred  fellow  who  assumes  to 
be  "  the  glass  of  fashion." 

The  reign  of  slang  phrases,  though  brief  in  a  city, 
may  be  interminably  tedious  in  a  remote  place  ;  when 
they  have  had  their  ignoble  day  at  the  capital,  they  are 
still  fresh  in  villages  like  Ouabbin,  especially  among 
overofrown  bovs.  And  for  a  while  the  slan^:,  with  an 
occasional  razeed  oath,  gives  a  curious  piquancy  to  the 
rustic  dialect.  The  Yankee  does  not  indulge  in  solid 
and  obtrusive  oaths,  but  allows  himself  modified  oath- 
lets,  or  colorable  imitations.  Sometimes  two  or  three 
senseless  collocations  which  have  been  *'  translated  " 
{a  la  Bottom)  from  their  natural  meaning  into  nonsen- 
sical catch-words  are  bandied  about  during  a  whole  sea- 
son by  ''knowing"  youths,  until  nervous  people  would 
wish  them  struck  dumb.  Probably  this  is  a  Yankee 
peculiarity  ;  for  the  British  call  all  the  current  slang, 
and  all  the  ready-made  or  second-hand  jokes,  Ameri- 
canisms. 

The  returned  native  may  notice  these  and  other 
things  which  are  not  agreeable  subjects  of  medita- 
tion ;  such  as  flippancy,  unknown  in  earlier  times,  a 
disposition  to  treat  sacred  themes  with  a  familiar 
irreverence,  a  boastful  defiance  of  parents,  a  derision 
of  the  maxims  of  the  elders,  a  self-sufificiency  wholly 


36o  QCABBIN. 

in  contrast  with  the  modesty  or  "humility"  of  the  old 
time,  and  a  chuckling  approval  of  successful  sharp- 
ness. As  to  the  last,  he  will  see  that  the  tendency  is 
not  universal,  though  sometimes  painfully  conspicuous. 
It  would  appear  that  the  career  of  the  notorious  Jim 
Fisk,  chief  wrecker  of  the  Erie  Railroad,  who  in  his 
younger  days  was  a  well-known  and  successful  pedler 
of  dress  fabrics,  etc.,  in  a  large  district  wdiich  included 
Ouabbin,  had  a  demoralizing  influence  upon  the  country 
youth  far  and  wdde.  It  came  to  be  the  habit  to  say  of 
a  successful  rogue  or  sharper  that  he  was  "smart." 
One  story  of  Fisk  was  long  current  in  Ouabbin.  His 
father,  wdio  was  also  a  noted  pedler,  and,  like  his  son, 
drove  a  handsome  turnout,  had  sold  a  woman  a  dress 
pattern  of  calico  which,  though  warranted  fast  in 
color,  faded  lamentably  when  washed.  The  woman 
complained  to  Jim  when  he  called  at  her  house  on  his 
round.  "  How  much  did  yeou  pay  a  yard  fer  the  cali- 
ker  .^  "  he  asked.  "  Ninepence  "  (twelve  and  a  half 
cents),  was  the  answer.  "  No,"  said  Jim  reflectively  ; 
"  no,  the  old  man  wouldn't  du  that  ;  he  wouldn't  've 
told  a  lie  fer  ninepunce,  —  but  he  niigJit  '  ve  told  eight. 
fer  a  dollar!  " 

The  unpleasant  change  in  moral  tone,  as  it  appears 
to  the  returned  native,  may  be  only  superficial.  And 
he  will  recollect  that  there  must  have  been  a  reaction 
after  the  slackening  of  the  old  and  rigid  rule.  Those 
who  live  under  mild  laws  keep  an  even  mind  when  a 
change  comes;  it  is  only  when  laws  have  been  griev- 
ous that  their  repeal  is  followed  by  excesses. 

One  of  the  inevitable  experiences  is  to  find  all  boy- 
ish recollections  of  size  and  distance  ridiculously  dim- 
inished.      The     returned     native    discovers    that    the 


THE  RETURN  OF   THE  XATIVE  36 1 

well-known  hills  and  fields  are  small,  and  that  the  river 
is  scarcely  more  than  a  dark  and  rushing  brook  ;  that  of 
the  distances  to  neighboring  towns,  so  formidable  in 
bovhood,  not  one  is  too  lone:  for  a  comfortable  morn- 
ing's  walk.  The  white  steeple  with  its  gilded  vane, 
once  so  much  admired,  now  that  he  looks  at  it  would 
not  be  too  large  for  one  of  the  lesser  pinnacles  of  a 
cathedral.  The  mansions  have  dwindled  to  modest 
houses,  and  ordinary  dwellings  appear  small  and  poor. 
There  is  not  room  to  turn  about  in  the  heart  of  the 
village  ;  and  as  for  the  narrow  common,  he  v»^onders 
how  the  boys  ever  played  round-ball  upon  it.  But  his 
exaggerated  notions  soon  settle  down,  and  he  gradu- 
ally adjusts  himself  to  the  old  dimensions  ;  it  was  he 
that  was  wronn'  ;  the  town  remains  unchans:ed. 

In  the  country  round  about  it  seems  that  the  crops 
have  decreased  ;  the  great  barns  are  no  longer  burst- 
ing with  hay,  nor  does  the  gold  of  Indian  corn  gleam 
through  the  chinks  of  the  lean-to  ;  all  the  people  are 
fed  with  Western  beef  and  flour.  Many  farms,  though 
not  abandoned,  yield  little  return,  except  in  shelter, 
garden  vegetables,  pasturage  for  a  few  cows,  and  plenty 
of  fresh  air. 

The  owners  must  pick  up  a  living  as  best  they  can  ; 
the  thin  and  stony  soil  can  do  no  more  for  them.  As 
we  have  seen,  their  sons  are  away  in  the  cities,  or  in 
the  far  West,  and  their  daughters  are  teachers,  or  are 
married  and  settled,  and  not  in  Ouabbin.  The  houses 
of  these  people  have  a  plaintive  look,  such  as  they 
themselves  wear  when  they  go  to  meeting. 

He  remembers  that  the  early  settlers  clung  to  the 
soil,  like  a  colony  of  sea-cucumbers  to  their  rock.  A 
house  seldom  sheltered  strangers  ;  long  journeys  were 


362  QUABBIISr 

uncommon,  and  letters  from  foreign  countries  and  dis- 
tant States  rarely  came  to  the  post-office.  A  family's 
lines  of  intimacy,  however  numerous,  were  as  local  and 
limited  as  those  of  the  clothes-yard ;  but  the  native 
now  knows  that  there  are  few  houses,  especially  in  the 
village,  from  which  there  are  not  ties  of  interest  and 
relationship  extending  to  some  of  the  large  centres  of 
business,  or  perhaps  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the 
earth. 

But  whatever  may  have  been  the  changes  in  the  life 
of  the  town,  the  returned  native  finds  himself  every- 
where on  familiar  ground,  and  memory  connects  each 
spot  with  some  event  or  emotion.  Filaments  from  the 
core  of  his  heart  strike  into  the  natal  soil.  Each 
bodily  faculty  is  alert  to  bring  out  something  from  its 
own  record  of  past  sensations.  The  ear  remembers 
the  songs  of  native  birds,  and  preserves  them  distinct 
from  the  carollings  heard  in  Scottish  valleys,  in  Eng- 
lish meadows,  and  German  forests.  It  recalls  the 
different  voices  of  the  men  and  women  v/ho  once  fre- 
quented the  village.  It  hears  anew,  but  faintly  and 
far  away,  as  in  the  telephone,  the  psalms  and  hymns  of 
the  long-silent  choir,  and  the  voice  of  the  minister  in 
warning,  expostulation,  and  prayer. 

So,  in  miraculous  freshness,  flavors  and  scents  re- 
turn, associated  with  images  of  color  and  form.  On 
the  bosom  of  the  cove  are  spread  anew  the  lily-pads, 
as  in  the  old  time,  forming  a  green  patchwork,  whose 
rifts  are  studded  with  cups  of  dazzling  white  petals, 
enclosing  tufts  of  gold.  The  coolness  and  fragrance 
of  those  lilies  are  as  palpable  to  touch  and  olfactories 
as  if  they  were  that  moment  pressed  to  the  lips. 

On  warm  nights  in   spring  there  used  to   come   up 


THE   RETURN  OF   THE  NATIVE  363 

from  the  cove  the  cries  of  thousands  of  frogs,  — boom- 
ing basses,  croaking  baritones,  and  keen-piping  falset- 
tos;  and  now,  when  the  eye*  of  the  returned  native 
catches  the  lilies,  or  when  a  thin  mist  draws  attention 
to  the  still  basin,  the  confused  medley  of  those  monot- 
onous concerts  seems  to  return. 

On  the  shady,  steep  bank  of  the  river,  and  on  well- 
known  hillsides,  there  were  and  still  are  checkerberry 
plants,  sought  by  children  in  spring  for  the  sweet  pun- 
gency of  the  young  shoots,  and  later  for  the  delicate 
flavor  of  the  dainty  pink  berries.  This  flavor  and  aroma, 
like  that  of  the  young  bark  of  the  fragrant  black  birch, 
belong  to  the  New  World.  At  the  thought  of  the  dark, 
glistening  leaves  and  the  sculptured,  coral-tinted  berries, 
the  characteristic  taste  and  scent  are  in  the  air,  as  if 
memory  kept  a  store  of  nature's  woodland  essences. 
So  it  is  with  the  more  pronounced  aromatic  warmth  of 
sassafras  and  sweet-flag,  each  siii geneiHs  and  indescrib- 
able. The  native  well  remembers  the  rocky  ledge  from 
which  he  dug  the  one,  and  the  swam})  where  he  pulled 
the  other. 

As  he  passes  walls  and  fences  overgrown  with  vines 
and  clematis,  how  the  odor  of  wild  grapes  and  of  dusty 
white  blossoms  comes  back  to  him,  even  in  winter  !  In 
bushy  pastures  the  perfume  of  sweet-fern  lingers  like  a 
breath  of  incense.  On  the  arid  plains  is  the  whole- 
some and  enduring  scent  of  the  silvery  everlasting ; 
the  native  perceives  and  snuffs  it,  though  it  lies  un- 
touched at  his  feet.  Form,  color,  and  sweetness  afe 
one   in  memory. 

When  he  thinks  of  the  old-fashioned  gardens,  what 
delights  for  every  sense  !  The  tinted  bells  of  tall  holly- 
hocks, the  flat-topped   bouquets   of    sweet-william,  the 


364  QUABBIN 

convolutions  of  pinks  and  marigolds,  the  jaunty  pin 
and-purple  caps  of  sweet-pease,  the  deep  crimson  globes 
of  peonies,  the  starry  e^es  of  pansies, — all  these  are 
seen  by  the  native  in  any  spot  "  where  once  a  garden 
smiled,"  even  though  it  is  neglected  and  grass-grown  ; 
and  along  with  their  vanished  beauty  come  the  odors 
of  lavender,  sweet-brier,  mint,  sage,  and  southernwood. 

Without  going  to  the  pond  he  sees  in  the  still  water 
near  the  shore  the  round  beds  scooped  in  the  sand  by 
the  roach  for  the  cradle  and  playground  of  its  young. 
The  "  pumpkin-seed,"  as  boys  call  this  short  and  chunky 
fish,  with  shadings  of  pale-green  and  black,  and  with 
scarlet-tipped  fins,  continually  playing  in  exquisite 
curves,  —  a  motion  which  men  clumsily  imitate  in 
feathering  an  oar,  —  is  ceaselessly  hovering  around 
those  tepid  shallows ;  and  its  wariness,  its  arrowy 
flights,  and  the  gleams  of  scarlet  fins,  are  reproduced 
in  the  mental  picture. 

Thus,  while  the  native  walks  about  an^'d  the  scenes 
of  his  childhood,  he  is  reminded  of  the  past  by  innumer- 
able associations  with  every  sense.  He  lives  over  again 
his  school-days  with  former  playmates  ;  and  his  toils, 
his  sports,  his  trials,  and  his  hopes,  come  back  with 
glimpses  of  hill,  field,  and  river;  with  the  bloom  and 
scent  of  flowers,  and  with  the  colors,  flight,  and  song 
of  birds.  Subtle  lines  connect  whatever  he  has  per- 
ceived by  any  of  the  senses,  so  that  as  he  walks  he 
constantly  touches  some  electric  knob,  and  all  his  nerves 
feel  the  thrill. 

In  all  these  scenes  are  beheld  the  human  beings 
whose  figures,  lineaments,  voices,  and  movements  form 
for  CRch  a  never-to-be-forgotten  whole.  Whatever  was 
pcor    or    mean    has   dropped    away,  and   the   men  and 


THE  RETURN  OF  THE  NATIVE  365 

women,  at  their  best,  and  as  they  aspired  to  be,  welcome 
the  native  with  friendly  glances.  Venerable  hands 
that  blessed  him  in  infancy,  hard  and  honest  hands  that 
have  clasped  his  own  fervently,  and  dainty  white  hands 
that  he  has  dallied  with,  are  beckoning  to  him.  Faces 
that  are  brown  and  sober,  or  round  and  rosy,  or  refined 
and  delicate,  look  as  if  they  must  speak  of  the  unrc- 
tiirning  past.  They  are  voiceless,  but  their  eyes  are 
eloquent. 

He  climbs  the  hills,  and  sees  the  faint  plumes  of 
smoke  over  distant  dwellings,  thinking  of  the  patient 
labor  he  has  witnessed  on  those  farms,  and  of  the  love 
and  content  sheltered  for  generations  by  the  gray  roofs. 
Returning,  he  visits  the  graveyard,  and  tarries  long  by 
the  mounds  which  cover  his  beloved  ones.  In  the  rus- 
tle of  the  trees  he  seems  to  hear  a  voice,  "Wait  a  while  ! 
Soon  shalt  thou,  too,  have  rest." 

In  the  cool  evening,  by  the  margin  of  the  wood,  he 
hears  the  plaintive  whippoorwill ;  and  it  seems  that  it 
must  be  the  same  bird  which  he  listened  to  with  stran^re 
pleasure  when  a  boy. 

With  the  waning  light  the  sounds  of  day  have  sunk 
into  silence.  Night  comes  with  the  train  of  ancient 
stars  which  know  no  change.  What  unutterable 
thoughts  come  as  he  looks  at  the  shining  host  !  In 
the  morning  he  is  awakened  by  the  sun  peering  over  the 
eastern  hill,  and  touching  the  vane  of  the  steeple. 
There  is  a  new  day,  and  the  world  begins  its  toil.  And 
so  it  will  be  when  he  does  not  rise  at  that  call,  and  the 
grass  is  beginning  to  grow  over  him. 


APPENDIX    I 

It  has  been  mentioned  that  within  half  a  century  the  livins: 
theology  and  the  methods  of  the  church,  in  Quabbin  and  else- 
where, underwent  a  silent  change  in  fact,  without  any  material 
alteration  of  the  time-honored  covenant.  The  change  is  still  in 
progress,  and  is  likely  to  be  f^ir-reaching.  For  instance,  there 
was  a  strong  controversy  a  few  years  ago,  in  an  ecclesiastical  coun- 
cil held  in  Indian  Orchard  (Mass.),  over  the  ordination  of  a  young 
minister  who.  in  his  examination,  declared  he  was  not  satisfied 
that  the  heathen  would  be  forever  damned.  In  spite  of  his  denial 
of  one  of  the  cardinal  doctrines  of  Calvinism,  the  majority  of  the 
council  consented  to  his  ordination. 

The  trials  of  Andover  professors  for  heresy  are  familiar  to  all 
readers.  If  these  trials  appear  to  have  been  conducted  in  a  super- 
ficial or  half-hearted  way,  it  may  be  because  no  living  theologian  is 
so  grounded  in  the  faith  once  held  by  the  orthodox  as  to  be  an 
effective  prosecutor.  It  would  be  instructive  if  some  theologic 
Landor  would  write  an  imaginary  conversation  between  a  modern 
Andover  man  and  Jonathan  Edwards.  With  what  indignation 
would  that  Boanerges  disown  and  denounce  the  orthodoxy  of 
to-day ! 

The  controversy  is  enveloped  in  a  cloud  of  words,  but  the  most 
vital  questions,  are  these:  Will  the  future  punishment  of  the  im- 
penitent be  without  end.-*  and  are  the  Scriptures  wholly  inspired, 
in  words  as  well  as  ideas  ? 

Discussion  of  doctrine  is  no  part  of  the  plan  of  this  book  ;  but 
it  may  be  observed  that  the  Calvinistic  position  on  those  questions 
has  not  been  forced  or  turned,  but  rather  silently  abandoned.  If 
the  scheme  of  Calvin  be  regarded  as  a  framed  building,  it  has 
hopelessly  sagged,  so  that  there  are  no  more  levels,  or  perpendicu- 
lars.    We  are  concerned  with   this  fact  (if  it   is  a  fact)  solely  on 


368  APPENDIX 

account   of  tlic  attitude  of  the  church   toward   what  is  generally 
called  the  progress  of  civilization. 

Whenever  any  comment  is  made  upon  the  rule  of  the  early  Puri- 
tan Church  in  Massachusetts,  stereotyped  replies,  kept  in  handy 
pigeon-holes,  are  at  once  forthcoming.  The  case  for  the  colonial 
magistrates  and  clergy  was  presented  by  Lowell  in  an  able  and 
brilliant  article,  "  New  England  Two  Centuries  Ago."  The  essayist 
had  every  qualification  for  his  task,  excepting,  perhaps,  an  active 
sympathy  with  the  progress  of  religious  ideas.  Every  student  of 
history  admits  the  main  contention  ;  namely,  that  the  exclusion 
of  religious  opponents,  of  "cranks"  and  impracticable  theorists, 
was,  at  the  beginning,  a  necessity  for  the  existence  of  the  colony. 
It  could  not  have  defended  itself  against  the  crown  on  one  hand, 
and  the  Indians  and  French  on  the  other,  unless  it  had  been  a 
compact  and  homogeneous  body,  directed  from  the  centre.  In 
view  of  what  the  colony,  or  rather  the  people  of  Massachusetts, 
were  to  become,  after  being  emancipated,  enlightened,  and  liberalized, 
this  "  survival  of  the  fittest"  was  providential ;  but  if  the  result  had 
bien  only  to  perpetuate  and  enthrone  unenlightened  Mathers  and 
"  Simple  Coblers,"  with  all  that  would  follow  such  a  rule,  the  down- 
fall of  the  theocratic  fabric  would  not  have  greatly  disturbed  the 
moral  balance  of  the  universe.  Massachusetts  became  great,  not  by 
adhering  rigidly  to  tradition,  but  by  interweaving  it  with  new  ideas. 
It  is  freely  admitted  that  the  most  of  the  ministers  acted  according 
to  their  light ;  hwX  they  naturally  supposed  a  seventeenth  century 
Puritan  the  highest  ideal  of  a  man ;  and  that  further  development 
was  impossible,  or  not  to  be  looked  for. 

The  intention  of  the  leaders  was  to  set  up  a  theocracy,  and  to 
govern  the  people  as  nearly  as  possible  by  the  Mosaic  code.  It  is 
true  there  were  Deputies  and  Assistants,  who  formed  in  a  way  an 
Upper  and  Lower  House,  and  who,  besides  supervising  the  churches, 
exercised  both  legislative  and  judicial  powers,  unfettered  by  the  com- 
mon law,  or  by  the  statutes  of  the  mother  country,  and  often  with 
little  of  Christian  charity.  Had  there  been  lawyers  of  experience  in 
the  colony,  many  acts  of  injustice  and  cruelty  might  have  been 
prevented,  and  the  reputation  of  a  Christian  commonwealth  miglit 
have  been  preserved  from  dark  and  indelible  stains.  But  no  law- 
yers were  permitted  in  Massachusetts  until  the  colony  was  merged 
in  the  province;  nor  had  they  even  then  any  proper  standing  in 


APPENDIX  369 

such  travesties  of  courts  as  existed,  until  a  little  before  the  out- 
break of  the  Revolution.  The  reason  is  obvious.  At  the  elbow  of 
every  magistrate  and  deputy  was  a  minister;  the  office-bearers 
governed  in  the  interest  of  the  church,  and  the  will  of  the  ministers 
was  never  thwarted.  Had  there  been  independent  courts,  and 
learned,  courageous  lawyers,  such  outrages  as  the  banishment  of 
Roger  Williams,  the  scourging  and  hanging  of  Quakers,  and  th^ 
sending  of  Anne  Hutchinson  to  her  death  in  the  wilderness,  could 
not  have  happened.  Under  the  provincial  government,  in  the 
trials  for  witchcraft,  the  rules  of  law  and  evidence,  and  the  estab- 
lished usages  of  British  tribunals,  are  said  to  have  been  substan- 
tially followed.  If  this  is  true,  it  proves  the  barbarity  of  our 
race  two  centuries  ago.  Persons  convicted  of  offences  in  the 
early  years  of  the  colonv  were  frequently  punished  not  according 
to  statute,  but  according  to  the  law  of  Moses,  interpreted  by  the 
clergv 

It  is  not  necessary  to  elaborate  these  points,  as  the  subject  has 
already  been  exhaustively  treated.^ 

It  is  obvious  that  the  fabric  of  society,  with  civilization  and 
religion  itself,  has  its  foundation  and  defence  in  law.  Until  the 
domination  exercised  by  the  ministers  was  thrown  off,  there  was  no 
hope  of  a  stable  government  based  on  the  will  of  an  intelligent  con- 
stituency ;  of  equal  laws  and  orderly  procedure  ;  of  free  thought  and 
free  speech  ;  of  literature  or  art ;  of  the  civilizing  influences  of  com- 
merce ;  of  learning,  science,  or  invention  ;  of  toleration  or  human 
brotherhood.  In  a  state  of  society  such  as  prevailed  down  to  the 
time  of  the  trials  for  witchcraft,  any  progress  in  enlightenment  was 
impossible.  For  that  reason  any  shock  which  that  theocracy  met, 
however  rude  or  malevolent,  was  a  blessing  to  after-times. 

In  the  work  just  referred  to,  Mr.  Adams  seems  to  regard  the 
emancipation  of  Massachusetts  as  completed  by  the  Revolution. 
Potentiallv  tliis  was  the  case,  but  the  era  of  full  emanciixition  ap 
pears  to  be  of  much  later  date.  The  rule  of  the  clergy  did  not  end 
until  the  divorce  of  church  and  State  was  accomplished,  and  the 
ministers  were  left  to  dciiend  wholl}'  upon  voluntar\-  contributions 
for  their  support. 

The  orthodox  Congregationalists  have  an  historic  position  as 
lineal  descendants  of  tlic  Puritan  Church  ;  and  i)robabiy  some  of 

1   "  The  Kniancipation  of  Massachubctts,"  by  Brooks  .\dams. 


370  APPENDIX 

their  leaders  have  deplored  the  clian<]:es  which  have  deprived  the 
body  of  its  former  prestige  ;  but  the  changes  have  brought  com- 
pensations. When  that  church  lost  its  hold  upon  the  government; 
its  control  of  the  schools  and  the  college ;  its  power  to  lay  taxes  in 
every  town  for  the  support  of  its  ministers,  — losses  which  were  inevi- 
table in  the  changed  circumstances  and  ideas  of  the  time,  —  it  was 
gaining  new  vitality  and  making  sure  its  future  prominence  in  the 
State.  A  church  and  its  ministers  are  never  so  strong  as  when, 
dispensing  with  statutes  and  privileges,  they  rely  upon  loyal  hearts 
and  willing  hands. 

Cotton  JMather,  after  mentioning  the  niggardly  support  given  by 
a  certain  town  to  its  minister,  averred  that  there  immediately  fol- 
lowed a  wide-spread  and  fatal  murrain  among  the  milch  cows  in 
that  region ;  and,  as  if  he  himself  had  let  loose  the  pestilence,  ex- 
claimed exultingly  that  it  would  have  been  better  for  those  people 
to  have  been  more  liberal  with  their  minister.  Nothing  could  illus- 
trate more  vividly  the  difterence  between  the  notions  of  his  time 
and  ours  than  this  foolish  story,  in  which  priestly  arrogance, 
ignorance  of  natural  laws,  and  a  mean  and  degrading  conception 
of  the  Deity  are  equally  conspicuous.  What  would  be  thought  to- 
day of  such  a  scare-crow  appeal  to  tax-payers? 

The  Orthodox  Church  is  now  fairly  in  touch  with  the  ideas  and 
movements  of  the  age.  Its  preachers  are  often  men  of  command- 
ing talents,  and  are  generally  literary  by  taste  and  habit.  Its 
members  in  all  enlightened  places  may  be  prominent  in  science,  in 
historical  research,  and  in  authorship.  How  different  the  case  was 
sixty  years  ago,  except  in  regard  to  theology,  is  well  known.  Per- 
haps other  and  even  more  vital  changes  may  be  witnessed  in  the 
next  generation.  If  Unitarianism  be  considered  a  protest  or  re- 
action against  the  extreme  doctrines  of  Calvinism,  it  mav  in  good 
time  have  fulfilled  its  mission  ;  if  it  is  based  upon  broad  affirma- 
tions, sufficient  for  the  intellect  and  with  free  scope  for  the  religious 
sentiment,  it  will  endure.  Vital  ideas  are  as  indestructible  as 
matter. 


APPENDIX    II 

CIVIL    LIBERTY 

It  seems  desirable  to  look  at  the  idea  of  civil  liberty  as  it  was 
conceived  l)y  the  founders  of  Massachusetts.  It  is  probably  impos- 
sible to  say  anything  new  in  itself,  but  it  may  be  possible  to  com- 
bine in  one  view  something  between  indiscriminate  eulogy  and 
malevolent  criticism.  Nothing  in  this  book  is  meant  as  disparage- 
ment of  Pilgrim  or  Puritan.  They  acted  their  part  according  to  the 
light  given  them  ;  and  they  believed  that  principles  and  forms  of 
government,  as  well  as  personal  liberty,  should  be  subordinated  to 
the  rule  of  Christ  on  earth,  or,  what  was  the  same  thing,  to  the  in- 
terests of  their  church.  The  State  they  founded  became  eventually 
the  noblest  of  free  and  Christian  commonwealths ;  but  though  the 
original  spirit  came  from  them,  it  was  modified  and  controlled  by 
other  influences,  against  which  they  and  many  of  their  descendants 
strove  with  their  might. 

If  we  think  of  what  is  contained  or  implied  in  the  notion  of  a  free 
State  in  this  century,  we  shall  find  these  to  be  the  chief:  i.  Per- 
sonal liberty,  subject  to  be  restrained  as  a  punishment  for  crime,  or 
to  prevent  injury  to  others.  2.  Political  equality,  absolute  and  uni- 
versal, except  for  public  malefactors.  3.  Toleration,  or  the  inalien- 
able right  of  opinion  upon  religious  and  all  other  topics,  but  subject 
to  restraint  as  to  public  utterance,  when  such  utterance  is  subversive 
of  law  and  order.  Where  these  three  notions  are  recognized  there 
is  freedom. 

Pilgrims  and  I\n-itans  steadfiistly  upheld  the  first.  Tiie  second 
they  did  not  know,  as  it  had  not  come  into  being.  •  To  the  third 
they  opposed  all  the  energy  of  their  convictions. 

There  may  have  been  previous  attempts  to  set  up  political  equality, 
but  never  by  an  enlightened,  reasonable,  law-abiding  people,  until 
it   w'as  made  the  ground-work  of  the  Constitution  of  the   United 


'}i']2  APPEXDIX 

States  by  the  hand  of  Thomas  Jefferson.  And  it  is  obvious  that 
even  he  shrank  from  carrying  the  doctrine  to  its  logical  result  in  the 
general  liberation  of  African  slaves.  He  felt  the  incongruity,  as  his 
writings  show,  but  it  was  left  for  later  believers  in  the  doctrine  to 
complete  his  work. 

The  distincions  in  social  rank,  as  recognized  in  England  at  the 
time,  were  preserved  in  the^colonies,  and  had  the  sanction  of  law. 
It  is  well  known  tliat  few  servants  were  named  in  the  list  of  the 
Mayflower's  passengers.  Sumptuary  laws  were  justified  by  a  clause 
stating  that  it  was  monstrous  for  people  of  mean  condition  to  imitate 
the  garb  of  gentlemen  by  wearing  wide  ruffs,  laces,  or  long  boots. 
The  "  seating  of  the  meeting  "  was  a  deference  paid  to  superior 
rank.  For  an  offence  a  man  might  be  deprived  of  the  title  of  "  Mr.,"' 
and  condemned  to  be  called  thereafter  "  Goodman"  so-and-so. 
And  ao  man  could  be  a  "  freeman,"  that  is,  a  citizen  and  voter,  un- 
less he  were  a  church-member,  and  unless  admitted  by  special  vote 
of  the  General  Court.  A  person  who  was  not  a  freeman  lived  on 
sufferance,  and  had  few  rights  which  the  rulers  were  bound  to  re- 
spect. Thess  facts,  which  are  tediously  familiar,  show  that  there 
was  not  the  least  notion  of  political  equalitv.  The  vision  of  a  free 
commonwealth  resting  upon  universal  suffrage  is  wholly  modern, 
and  had  not  dawned  upon  the  settlers  of  Plymouth  or  Boston. 
There  is  no  reason  for  reproaching  them  on  that  account,  for  they 
were  Britons,  with  the  education  and  inherited  prejudices  of  a  peo- 
ple to  whom  political  equality  was  unknown.  It  is  commonly  said 
that  the  feudal  system  came  to  an  end  in  Great  Britain  some  cen- 
turies ago,  but  there  was  never  a  greater  error. 

Slavery  lingered  in  Massachusetts  until  after  the  adoption  of  the 
Constitution  in  1820.  The  system  of  indentured  apprenticeship, 
and  the  binding  out  of  friendless  girls  as  house-servants,  continued 
much  longer. 

Political  equality  is  to  be  considered  as  a  purely  legal  status,  and 
not  confounded  with  social  equality,  which  has  never  existed  any- 
where except  among  obscure  religious  sects,  such  as  the  primitive 
church.  The  communism  of  the  New  Testament  has  never  been 
taken  seriously  by  any  considerable  body  of  Christians.  In  the 
United  States  a  man  has  his  right  in  court  and  at  the  polls,  but  no 
legal  claim  for  social  recognition,  still  less  for  brotherly  love. 

As  to  the  third   element  in  a  free  State,  toleration,  it  would  be 


APPEXD/X  373 

superfluous  to  dwell  upon  the  position  of  the  founders  of  Massachu- 
setts in  regard  to  it.  It  was  established  after  long  struggles.  It 
conquered  by  the  suppression  of  Episcopalians,  the  scourging  and 
hanging  of  Quakers,  and  by  the  banishment  of  Anne  Wheelwright, 
and  of  Roger  Williams.^  The  persecution,  which  at  the  time 
seemed  to  strengthen  the  government,  had  a  reflex  action  little  sus- 
pected. Every  violent  measure  brought  the  triumph  of  peace  and 
good-will  nearer.  Toleration  became  the  rule  in  Massachusetts 
onlv  when  theological  dogmas  had  been  softened,  and  the  church 
and  State  dissociated. 

In  tliis  matter,  as  in  regard  to  political  equality,  we  are  indebted 
to  Jet^erson, —  the  Constitution  of  the  United  States  forbidding  reli- 
gious tests.  This  is  a  boon  that  will  endure  ;  there  can  never  be 
even  an  attempt  to  fetter  the  free  mind. 

One  anomaly  still  exists  in  Massachusetts,  and  perhaps  in  other 
States,  namely,  the  exclusion  from  the  witness-box  of  those  who  do 
not  profess  to  believe  certain  abstract  doctrines.  In  its  results  this 
is  an  infringement  of  natural  justice.  If  an  atheist  were  assaulted 
and  beaten,  or  injured  in  his  propert}',  he  would  be  without  redress, 

1  Bancroft  thus  summarizes  the  views  of  Roger  Williams  :  "  The  civil  magis- 
trates should  restrain  crime,  but  never  control  opinion  ;  should  punish  guilt,  but 
never  violate  inward  freedom.  The  principle  contained  within  itself  an  entire  ref- 
ormation of  theological  jurisprudence:  it  would  blot  from  the  statute-book  the  fel- 
ony of  non-conformity  ;  would  quench  tlie  fires  that  persecution  had  so  long  kept 
burning  ;  would  repeal  every  law  compelling  attendance  on  public  worship  ;  would 
abolish  tithes  and  all  forced  contributions  to  the  maintenance  of  religion  ;  would 
give  an  equal  protection  to  every  form  of  religious  faith. 

"  Almost  half  a  century  before  William  Penn  became  an  American  proprietary, 
and  two  years  before  Descartes  founded  modern  philosophy  on  the  method  of  free 
reflection,  Roger  Williams  asserted  the  L.rcat  doctrine  of  intellectual  liberty.  It 
became  his  glory  to  found  a  State  upon  that  principle,  and  to  stamp  himself  upon 
its  rising  institutions  in  characters  so  deep  that  the  impress  has  remained  to  this 
day,  and  can  never  be  erased  without  a  total  destruction  of  the  work. 

"  He  was  the  first  person  in  modern  Christendom  to  assert  in  its  plentitude  the 
doctrine  of  the  liberty  of  conscience,  the  equality  of  opinions  before  tlie  law  ;  and 
in  its  defence  he  was  the  harbinger  of  Milton,  the  precursor  and  the  superior  of 
Jeremy  Taylor. 

'*  We  praise  the  man  who  lirst  analyzed  the  air,  or  resolved  water  into  its  ele- 
ments, or  drew  the  lightning  from  the  clouds.  ...  A  nuiral  principle  has  a  much 
•wider  and  nearer  influence  on  human  happiness  ;  nor  can  any  discovery  of  truth 
be  of  more  direct  benefit  to  society  than  that  which  establishes  a  perpetual  religious 
peace.'' 


374  APPENDIX 

if  the  case  depended  in  any  way  upon  his  own  testimony.  "  Athe- 
ism ''  has  often  been  fastened  upon  fooHsh  talkers,  as  well  as  upon 
conscientious  persons  who  professed  themselves  unable  to  bring  the 
tremendous  and  unthinkable  attributes  of  the  Former  of  the  uni- 
verse into  the  limits  of  a  personal  or  anthropomorphic  God.  It  has 
also  been  required  by  statute  that  witnesses  should  qualify  by 
avowing  their  belief  in  "a  state  of  future  rewards  and  punishments." 
Many  an  honest  man  might  find  it  difficult  to  do  this,  if  the  words 
were  literally  construed ;  and  the  more  conscientious  he  was  the 
less  would  he  be  disposed  to  frame  an  answer  that  would  comply 
with  the  law. 

The  natural  remedy  is  to  abolish  oaths  in  courts  of  justice,  and 
to  substitute  affirmations,  annexing  the  penalties  now  provided  for 
perjury.  The  taking  of  an  oath  is  a  relic  of  superstition,  useless  as 
a  guarantee  of  truth,  and,  in  fact,  a  prolific  source  of  falsity. ^ 

If  we  consider  now  all  that  is  included  in  the  idea  of  a  free  com- 
monwealth, we  shall  be  able  to  give  such  credit  as  is  due  to  our 
Puritan  ancestors.  We  are  to  remember  that  we  owe  to  them 
exclusively  free  schools  and  local  government  by  towns,  —  two 
agencies  more  important  than  any  others  in  diftusing  intellectual 
light,  in  making  men  worthy  of  freedom,  and  in  fitting  them  to 
maintain  it.  Without  these  the  doctrines  of  political  equality  and 
toleration  would  have  had  little  practical  influence  ;  with  them,  aided 
by  the  deep  religious  spirit,  the  truth,  self-devotion,  and  ideality 
which  marked  the  fathers,  there  has  been  set  up  a  republic, 
strong:  in  the  hearts  of  men,  firmlv  based  also  on  law,  and  which 
recognizes  the  highest  ethical  principles  ever  embodied  in  a  govern- 
ment. 

Perhaps  the  delay  in  the  development  of  freedom  was  not  only 
inevitable,  but  in  the  end  advantageous.  Perhaps  the  rule  and 
the  methods  of  the  Puritan  clergy  were  best  for  the  future  prosper- 
ity of  a  small,  remote,  and  isolated  colony.  They  could  be  useful 
and  successful  only  so  long  as  the  people  were  obedient  as  one  man 
to  spiritual  rulers ;  only  so  long  as  intercourse  with  the  great 
world  was  cutoff;   only  so  long  as  the  wretched  roads  made  inter- 

1  After  a  trial  in  the  Superior  Court  in  Boston,  in  which  the  false  swearing  on 
botli  sides  was  evident  and  appalling,  the  chief  justice,  Charles  Allen,  pointing 
to  an  old  and  dirty  volume  on  which  the  witnesses  had  been  sworn,  said,  "  Mr. 
Clerk,  get  a  new  Testament  :  that  calf-skin  is  saturated  with  perjury!" 


APPENDIX  375 

communication  difficult ;  only  so  long  as  men  were  debarred  from 
general  reading  and  free  inquiry ;  only  so  long  as  superstition  pre- 
vailed, and  the  phenomena  of  nature  were  taken  as  signs  of  the 
anger  of  the  Almighty.  With  the  advance  of  learning,  and  the  in- 
flux of  new  ideas  from  without,  there  came  a  relaxation  of  dogma, 
and  an  irresistible  development  of  freedom.  Then  it  was  that  "  the 
stars  in  their  courses  fought  against "  the  pretensions  of  the  clergy 
and  their  allies,  the  magistrates.  At  last  came  the  era  of  science 
and  invention,  —  of  railroads,  newspapers,  and  general  literature; 
an  era  of  enlightenment  so  vivid  and  universal  that  the  colonial  and 
provincial  centuries  now  seem  to  have  been  a  continuance  of  the 
Dark  Ages. 

It  should  be  added  that,  in  spite  of  the  supposed  leanings  of  the 
Federalists  toward  aristocratic  institutions,  political  equalitv  was 
welcomed  in  Massachusetts  as  early  as  anywhere  in  the  Union.  In 
Virginia,  where  the  idea  first  took  practical  form,  it  was  not  fully 
realized  until  nearly  a  century  afterward,  when  slavery  fell  by  the 
proclamation  of  President  Lincoln. 


APPENDIX    III 

Singers  in  the  olden  times  sang  as  birds  sing:  "  As  the  old  cocks 
crew  the  young  ones  learned."  Books  of  musical  notation  were 
used  in  psalmody,  but  seldom  for  secular  music  ;  and,  in  the  coun- 
try, at  least,  there  was  no  sheet  music  before  the  days  of  pianos. 
A  singer  caught  a  new  melody  by  attentively  listening  to  it,  and 
learned  the  words  by  assiduous  repetition.  The  singer  referred  to 
in  the  chapter  upon  "Working  the  Roads''  had  an  extraordinary 
memory,  —  perfected  by  years  of  practice,  —  which  retained  the 
Bible  as  well  as  the  two  hundred  songs.  His  powers  would  seem 
to  make  credible  the  handing  down  of  the  Homeric  ballads,  and  the 
Gaelic  legends  and  apostrophes  of  Ossian. 

He  found  the  words  of  "  Wolfe's  Adieu  "  in  an  American  news- 
paper of  the  early  part  of  this  century,  without  any  hint  of  the  au- 
thorship ;  and  he  adapted  them  to  an  old  English  melody  (which 
he  had  learned  by  rote),  called  "  The  Nightingale.'''  It  is  probable 
that  neither  the  words  nor  the  music  have  ever  been  in  print  from 
that  day  to  this.  A  search  was  made  in  the  British  Museum  with- 
out result.  The  music  is  pleasing,  but  without  much  vigor  or  origi- 
nality. The  song  will  serve  to  show  how  people  were  entertained 
in  the  old  days. 

The  singer  referred  to  was  more  successful  in  satiric  songs,  .such 
as  "The  Vicar  of  Bray  "and  "The  Embargo,"  a  political  skit 
against  Jefferson ;  but  he  sang  many  of  a  sentimental  kind,  like 
Campbell's  "  Soldier's  Dream,"  with  natural  pathos  and  good  taste. 


(^ 


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